FN-2187 opened his eyes. He blinked blearily up at the dim light above him, and even that made his head hurt. It was pounding, and he didn’t know why. Gingerly he raised a hand to it, feeling for blood.
His arm was grabbed before he could make contact, and he was dragged roughly to standing. His head swam and his stomach lurched; he held his gorge with an almost superhuman effort of will. Sweat rolled down his face in rivulets. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on breathing. Weak, he thought, you were weak. You are weak. And on the heels of that: This is your fault. Yours.
“You will get a hold of yourself and you will stand straight this instant, or you will be vented,” A voice hissed at him. FN-2187 didn’t nod; it wouldn’t be appreciate and would only make his head hurt all the more. The correct way to show obedience was to obey. He snapped to attention, swallowing the bile that rose in the back of his throat as his headache intensified and his stomach tried to rebel again.
Captain Phasma walked into his line of sight. FN-2187 did not react. He stared straight ahead. He was not to look at her unless she told him to; he could do that much, at least.
“FN-2187,” Captain Phasma said slowly, then paused. FN-2187 didn’t know what she was waiting for. She had not told him to respond. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, but FN-2187 resisted the urge to look at her. He was mortified that he even had that urge. She had not told him to look; he should not want to. He did not know why it was so hard to resist; why his eyes should want to find her. He did not know why he couldn’t focus beyond his headache and his nausea. He did not know why he was failing, or how he had failed the first time. Most of all, he did not understand why everything felt so wrong. FN-2187 knew that nothing was supposed to feel wrong, or right. There was only duty. There was only the command of his superior officers, and it must be followed without question. Anything else was insubordination, and he knew he should report it. Should confess that somehow, whatever had been wrong enough with him to warrant reconditioning was still wrong, perhaps getting worse as they stood there.
He kept silent. A mixture of terror and exhilaration went through him as he realized that he had no intention of telling the Captain anything. His head pounded even more sharply, as though in warning. He felt his body wanting to shake and ruthlessly suppressed it, clenching his jaw to stop whatever words might want to pour out. The pause had gone on too long; he had lost his chance to confess. He must remain silent now.
“You’ve been reassigned,” Captain Phasma finally continued, as though there had been no pause. “You will dress and report to JC-0671 in section three.”
He found his way to section three quickly, grateful for the helmet that hid his face as he walked. If anyone had been able to seen his face they would have marched him straight back to the reconditioning room, for he kept frowning. He knew where he was going, knew what turns to take and which corridors to follow, but as he took them his headache grew worse, and he seemed to see other halls, other turns. He wanted more than anything to stop and rest, to lay his aching head down and close his eyes, but that was not an option. It would be a long time before his mandated rest period was scheduled.
“Honestly, buddy, sometimes it’s just nice to sleep in,” someone said from behind him, and FN-2187 turned around, wondering who would have the audacity to even think such a thing, much less say it aloud. But there was no one there. He shook his head, knowing that it would only make him feel sicker but needing to somehow get some clarity.
“Is there a problem, trooper?” a voice asked, and he turned towards the speaker, back straightening without thinking about it. General Hux stood there, his eyes boring into FN-2187 as though he could tell exactly what he was thinking, even through the face mask. Perhaps he could. There were rumors that Kylo Ren could read minds; it was possible that General Hux had the same power. Just the thought of the General knowing what had flitted through his head just moments before had FN-2187 growing cold, although he could still feel the sweat running down his face to pool in the neck of his uniform.
“No, Sir,” he answered, putting the other voice out of his mind with effort. The General merely looked at him, waiting, and as something more seemed required of him he continued. “I was-“
“Breaking protocol by standing around uselessly. I am aware. Tell me: what is it we do with a troopers who break protocol?”
FN-2187 swallowed hard for the first time, he was beyond grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet. Though he could hear his own fear and queasiness in his voice, it came out of the helmet smoothly, without inflection. “Sir. First offense, official reprimand. Second offense, reconditioning. Third O- ”
“Official reprimands are for soft leaders, and they have no place on this ship. If a soldier does not follow commands, a reprimand will do little to correct the fault. A true leader knows this, and acts accordingly.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are FN-2187.”
It wasn’t a question, but the General seemed to want an answer nonetheless. “Yes, Sir.”
“You’re quite fortunate, FN-2187,” General Hux told him, voice very soft. He stepped closer, his eyes like lasers filled with something close to fury but not exactly, something FN-2187 didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. “Most troopers who go through reconditioning don’t also receive a promotion.”
General Hux studied FN-2187 a moment longer before stepping back. “Move along, trooper,” he said. FN-2187 did as he was told, moving quickly because tardiness would not be tolerated, and being waylaid by General Hux was no excuse. He had just been informed what any perceived insubordination would earn him; he did not want to test the truth of it.
He discovered that he was still in sanitation, only in the officer’s area rather than the general barracks. It was a promotion of a sort, as only the most exemplary troopers were allowed near the officer’s quarters and mess area, but as the day drew to a close FN-2187 found that he would rather be back in his old station, cleaning used uniforms and emptying the trooper’s waste into the vast vacuum of space. He felt that the officers paid too much attention to the troopers in general, and he in particular seemed to draw more glances than most. He didn’t know why, and he wished that he hadn’t noticed – he wasn’t supposed to, was supposed to care only for doing his job – but notice he did, and he spent the entire day with his skin crawling, feeling eyes on him but pretending that he was focused solely on the work in front of him, and nothing else. It was a relief to head to training, and an actual blessing to be able to retire for bed, sore, exhausted, and still with a headache pounding behind his eyes.
He lay in his bunk that night, eyes closed, trying to empty his mind. The physical exertion of training usually made that fairly easy, he remembered, though the memory seemed distant, as though it had happened to a different person, or occurred so long ago that it might as well have. He supposed that it was an effect of his recent reconditioning.
He wondered briefly what he had done to earn said reconditioning, but as soon as he realized what he was thinking about, he turned his mind away. That kind of thinking was probably exactly what had led him to where he was, laying in a bunk surrounded by troopers whose designations he didn’t even know, head pounding and stomach seriously considering ejecting the rations he’d forced himself to bolt down during his allotted meal time. I have to stop this, he thought. He focused on his breathing, on drawing deep lungfulls of air and releasing them slowly, and before he knew it he had lulled himself to sleep.
He was hot, so hot, walking through and endless desert under a boiling sun. Looking down at himself, he noticed that he was wearing only the black shirt and pants that were worn under the regulation uniform. What? He thought. No, this is wrong. Wrong. They were only allowed to remove their uniforms to sleep; hot or cold, the uniform was to remain on at all times. To remove it without authorization would earn him more than a first offense reprimand. It could earn him a reconditioning.
He flinched, and instinctively looked around him, fearing that he’d been spotted. There was nothing but sand. He raised his hand to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and noticed that he was holding something. Something brown…before he could get a good look at it, he lost his balance and fell-
His knees hit hard cement, jarring his back and making his head ache. “Dammit!” he yelled, wanting to punch something. There was a searing line across his back, making him uncomfortable; it burned without hurting, itched without needing to be scratched. He sensed that it had hurt, at some point, and perhaps would again, but for now it was just an annoyance.
“Hey, it’s okay, buddy. You haven’t used those muscles in weeks; give yourself a break, alright?” He looked up, which set off a firecracker in his head. A blurry figure stood in front of him, a mix of pale and dark browns and, inexplicably, bright orange. “Try again?” the figure (Poe, his name is Poe, and I don’t know how I know that but I do) asked, and reached out, slapping his helmeted head with a hand covered in blood.
Finn woke with a full body jolt that nearly sent him tumbling out of his bunk. Darkness surrounded him; he could hear the rhythmic breathing of sleeping troopers. He was shaking, his head was pounding worse than ever, and the thin pillow underneath his head was damp. He raised one trembling hand to his face, finding it wet. He’d been crying, he knew. Crying in his sleep. He knew other things, too. I am not a designation, he thought, filled with exultation. I have a name. I have a name and I matter. On the heels of that: Poe. Poe Dameron. He still didn’t know what that name meant; he only knew that it was important. But for the moment he had to set it aside; right then it was infinitely more important that he get away from the First Order as soon as he could.
In the back of his mind there was an echo of his own voice asking someone if they could fly a TIE fighter, and he frowned. Trying to escape on a TIE fighter would be impractical; he could not fly, and anyone on the base that could would likely march him straight back to Command to be vented. He shuddered lightly. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel quite as afraid as he was positive he should; knowing that he had gotten away from them once before (because of course he had, how else would he have acquired a name?) had buoyed his confidence enough that he thought he might be able to get away a second time, if he were very, very careful. My name is Finn. My name is Finn and I am going to get out of here and find Poe Dameron and figure out why he’s important. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, and if he dreamed, he did not know it.
Fill: Poe/Finn- Poe is Finn's anchor 2a/3
His arm was grabbed before he could make contact, and he was dragged roughly to standing. His head swam and his stomach lurched; he held his gorge with an almost superhuman effort of will. Sweat rolled down his face in rivulets. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on breathing. Weak, he thought, you were weak. You are weak. And on the heels of that: This is your fault. Yours.
“You will get a hold of yourself and you will stand straight this instant, or you will be vented,” A voice hissed at him. FN-2187 didn’t nod; it wouldn’t be appreciate and would only make his head hurt all the more. The correct way to show obedience was to obey. He snapped to attention, swallowing the bile that rose in the back of his throat as his headache intensified and his stomach tried to rebel again.
Captain Phasma walked into his line of sight. FN-2187 did not react. He stared straight ahead. He was not to look at her unless she told him to; he could do that much, at least.
“FN-2187,” Captain Phasma said slowly, then paused. FN-2187 didn’t know what she was waiting for. She had not told him to respond. The silence seemed to stretch on forever, but FN-2187 resisted the urge to look at her. He was mortified that he even had that urge. She had not told him to look; he should not want to. He did not know why it was so hard to resist; why his eyes should want to find her. He did not know why he couldn’t focus beyond his headache and his nausea. He did not know why he was failing, or how he had failed the first time. Most of all, he did not understand why everything felt so wrong. FN-2187 knew that nothing was supposed to feel wrong, or right. There was only duty. There was only the command of his superior officers, and it must be followed without question. Anything else was insubordination, and he knew he should report it. Should confess that somehow, whatever had been wrong enough with him to warrant reconditioning was still wrong, perhaps getting worse as they stood there.
He kept silent. A mixture of terror and exhilaration went through him as he realized that he had no intention of telling the Captain anything. His head pounded even more sharply, as though in warning. He felt his body wanting to shake and ruthlessly suppressed it, clenching his jaw to stop whatever words might want to pour out. The pause had gone on too long; he had lost his chance to confess. He must remain silent now.
“You’ve been reassigned,” Captain Phasma finally continued, as though there had been no pause. “You will dress and report to JC-0671 in section three.”
He found his way to section three quickly, grateful for the helmet that hid his face as he walked. If anyone had been able to seen his face they would have marched him straight back to the reconditioning room, for he kept frowning. He knew where he was going, knew what turns to take and which corridors to follow, but as he took them his headache grew worse, and he seemed to see other halls, other turns. He wanted more than anything to stop and rest, to lay his aching head down and close his eyes, but that was not an option. It would be a long time before his mandated rest period was scheduled.
“Honestly, buddy, sometimes it’s just nice to sleep in,” someone said from behind him, and FN-2187 turned around, wondering who would have the audacity to even think such a thing, much less say it aloud. But there was no one there. He shook his head, knowing that it would only make him feel sicker but needing to somehow get some clarity.
“Is there a problem, trooper?” a voice asked, and he turned towards the speaker, back straightening without thinking about it. General Hux stood there, his eyes boring into FN-2187 as though he could tell exactly what he was thinking, even through the face mask. Perhaps he could. There were rumors that Kylo Ren could read minds; it was possible that General Hux had the same power. Just the thought of the General knowing what had flitted through his head just moments before had FN-2187 growing cold, although he could still feel the sweat running down his face to pool in the neck of his uniform.
“No, Sir,” he answered, putting the other voice out of his mind with effort. The General merely looked at him, waiting, and as something more seemed required of him he continued. “I was-“
“Breaking protocol by standing around uselessly. I am aware. Tell me: what is it we do with a troopers who break protocol?”
FN-2187 swallowed hard for the first time, he was beyond grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet. Though he could hear his own fear and queasiness in his voice, it came out of the helmet smoothly, without inflection. “Sir. First offense, official reprimand. Second offense, reconditioning. Third O- ”
“Official reprimands are for soft leaders, and they have no place on this ship. If a soldier does not follow commands, a reprimand will do little to correct the fault. A true leader knows this, and acts accordingly.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are FN-2187.”
It wasn’t a question, but the General seemed to want an answer nonetheless. “Yes, Sir.”
“You’re quite fortunate, FN-2187,” General Hux told him, voice very soft. He stepped closer, his eyes like lasers filled with something close to fury but not exactly, something FN-2187 didn’t understand. Didn’t want to understand. “Most troopers who go through reconditioning don’t also receive a promotion.”
General Hux studied FN-2187 a moment longer before stepping back. “Move along, trooper,” he said. FN-2187 did as he was told, moving quickly because tardiness would not be tolerated, and being waylaid by General Hux was no excuse. He had just been informed what any perceived insubordination would earn him; he did not want to test the truth of it.
He discovered that he was still in sanitation, only in the officer’s area rather than the general barracks. It was a promotion of a sort, as only the most exemplary troopers were allowed near the officer’s quarters and mess area, but as the day drew to a close FN-2187 found that he would rather be back in his old station, cleaning used uniforms and emptying the trooper’s waste into the vast vacuum of space. He felt that the officers paid too much attention to the troopers in general, and he in particular seemed to draw more glances than most. He didn’t know why, and he wished that he hadn’t noticed – he wasn’t supposed to, was supposed to care only for doing his job – but notice he did, and he spent the entire day with his skin crawling, feeling eyes on him but pretending that he was focused solely on the work in front of him, and nothing else. It was a relief to head to training, and an actual blessing to be able to retire for bed, sore, exhausted, and still with a headache pounding behind his eyes.
He lay in his bunk that night, eyes closed, trying to empty his mind. The physical exertion of training usually made that fairly easy, he remembered, though the memory seemed distant, as though it had happened to a different person, or occurred so long ago that it might as well have. He supposed that it was an effect of his recent reconditioning.
He wondered briefly what he had done to earn said reconditioning, but as soon as he realized what he was thinking about, he turned his mind away. That kind of thinking was probably exactly what had led him to where he was, laying in a bunk surrounded by troopers whose designations he didn’t even know, head pounding and stomach seriously considering ejecting the rations he’d forced himself to bolt down during his allotted meal time. I have to stop this, he thought. He focused on his breathing, on drawing deep lungfulls of air and releasing them slowly, and before he knew it he had lulled himself to sleep.
He was hot, so hot, walking through and endless desert under a boiling sun. Looking down at himself, he noticed that he was wearing only the black shirt and pants that were worn under the regulation uniform. What? He thought. No, this is wrong. Wrong. They were only allowed to remove their uniforms to sleep; hot or cold, the uniform was to remain on at all times. To remove it without authorization would earn him more than a first offense reprimand. It could earn him a reconditioning.
He flinched, and instinctively looked around him, fearing that he’d been spotted. There was nothing but sand. He raised his hand to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and noticed that he was holding something. Something brown…before he could get a good look at it, he lost his balance and fell-
His knees hit hard cement, jarring his back and making his head ache. “Dammit!” he yelled, wanting to punch something. There was a searing line across his back, making him uncomfortable; it burned without hurting, itched without needing to be scratched. He sensed that it had hurt, at some point, and perhaps would again, but for now it was just an annoyance.
“Hey, it’s okay, buddy. You haven’t used those muscles in weeks; give yourself a break, alright?” He looked up, which set off a firecracker in his head. A blurry figure stood in front of him, a mix of pale and dark browns and, inexplicably, bright orange. “Try again?” the figure (Poe, his name is Poe, and I don’t know how I know that but I do) asked, and reached out, slapping his helmeted head with a hand covered in blood.
Finn woke with a full body jolt that nearly sent him tumbling out of his bunk. Darkness surrounded him; he could hear the rhythmic breathing of sleeping troopers. He was shaking, his head was pounding worse than ever, and the thin pillow underneath his head was damp. He raised one trembling hand to his face, finding it wet. He’d been crying, he knew. Crying in his sleep. He knew other things, too. I am not a designation, he thought, filled with exultation. I have a name. I have a name and I matter. On the heels of that: Poe. Poe Dameron. He still didn’t know what that name meant; he only knew that it was important. But for the moment he had to set it aside; right then it was infinitely more important that he get away from the First Order as soon as he could.
In the back of his mind there was an echo of his own voice asking someone if they could fly a TIE fighter, and he frowned. Trying to escape on a TIE fighter would be impractical; he could not fly, and anyone on the base that could would likely march him straight back to Command to be vented. He shuddered lightly. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel quite as afraid as he was positive he should; knowing that he had gotten away from them once before (because of course he had, how else would he have acquired a name?) had buoyed his confidence enough that he thought he might be able to get away a second time, if he were very, very careful. My name is Finn. My name is Finn and I am going to get out of here and find Poe Dameron and figure out why he’s important. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, and if he dreamed, he did not know it.