days pass. weeks turn into months. herds of resistance soldiers, fighters, supporters swarm the place. bubbly, grumpy, laughing, shouting, flirting, all so informal, so casual ; it’s a different environment, one requiring a lot of adaptation. in order to be accepted into the clan, she had to fit in.
there was one aspect in which still she refused to cooperate, at least, for one individual - fn-2187, the greatest personal betrayal in over a decade. repeatedly she’s told to call him by name, repeatedly she refuses. no, a chosen title is earned, & he sits too far back in the negatives of respect for that.
— rather, he did, initially.
things had been talked through, more or less violently, on multiple occasions. his betrayal of her work, of her pride, the sheer disrespect of the time & effort phasma herself put into molding him into the perfect stormtrooper, the ideal soldier. he would have been an officer, perhaps more some day. yet, he was betrayed as well ; the mission to the mining moon, seeing the woman the first order revered as the example of perfection, order several people murdered without so much as a negotiating word.
granted, phasma saw no wrong in her doings, felt no regret, no resentment even that he felt this way. she continued to see it as weakness, fn-2187’s dangerous levels of empathy. but, at least it offered some perspective, some reasoning that he left. blinded by emotions. just like keldo.
as things leveled, as they mellowed, the woman found herself holding less anger for the ex-trooper, less desire to torment him [ to the extent of her ability ] for the grudge still lodged firmly in the back of her mind. it may always be there, but, in the name of survivalism, it could be forgotten, at least for now.
they’re on the same side again, she’s again training him to fight - more like a parnassos warrior than a stormtrooper, given her restriction on blasters - the pride of his skill is slowly resurfacing beneath everything else. even now, as they spar, a test to what he’s learned in the past week specifically, his skill & mastery of the art of fighting is apparent to all who observe.
icy blue eyes watch for every move, calculating ; not yet had one of the resistance students bested her, but phasma was more careful with him. he knew her, & even within a difference of style, combative familiarity could mean potential weakness. she left no opening, not to her ability, & yet he did something all trainees had yet to do - he surprised her.
the hit of the training staff was felt firmly on the woman’s side, a sliver beneath her ribcage. with a blade, a mace, or another dangerous weapon, that could have done serious damage, perhaps fatal to someone smaller. to phasma, with a training staff, it hardly made her flinch. it did, however, cause pause.
gazing to him, thoughts flicker through her mind for a moment - he was still her ideal soldier, her greatest pride in training, regardless of what side they’re on - & she nods, hands coming behind her back to indicate the spar is over. there’s a newfound respect in her posture, nearly undetectable to anyone except those who knew the art of subtlety.
“ adequate. ” — still the closest thing she’ll ever say to good job or well done. — “ your fighting has improved. no one else has been capable of landing a single hit on me. ” — for a moment she contemplates, again, before refocusing on the young man.
— “ you should be proud . . . finn. ”
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