FN-2187 was, for the first time, glad that his fellow troopers rarely took notice of him. Most days he longed for their recognition, a nod as they passed in the halls or an invitation to join a platoon during survival training, but today the nameless trooper stood in the front corner of the dark transport, trembling with fear and revulsion. If he’d glimpsed down at his hands he would have been embarrassed by the visible shaking, but he couldn’t even bear a quick look, the knowledge that Slip’s blood had no doubt stained his armor averting his eyes for the time being. It wasn’t just Slip’s blood, either. The sand had been soaked with the villager’s (he couldn’t stand to call it a mess, but that’s what Captain Phasma had called it, disgust permeating her usually stoic tone) blood, the viscous liquid causing clumps of red earth to stick to his boots. He’d been acutely aware of the stain as he’d walked into the hanger, but the bright lights in the hanger revealed that every trooper who had survived bore the same stain, and Eight-Seven hadn’t been able to calculate the amount of life that had to be shed to produce enough blood to cover the large area they’d occupied, even though he’d witnessed it with his own eyes. The memories assaulted him, leaving only one devastating thought in their wake: I have to get out of here.
It had been surprisingly easy to slip away, back into the unmanned transport; Eight-Seven wasn’t in the mental state to be stealthy. He was hardly ever spoken to by his unit, even though they had to notice him - his scores were far too high for him to be completely ignored - but when they spoke of troopers in his unit sometimes joked that he’d been born in armor, bred from birth to be a soldier for the First Order. Eight-Seven knew it couldn’t be true, that once he’d been someone’s – he’d never meet them, it didn’t matter (something told him it did but he wasn’t sure why, just like he wasn’t sure why he’d been able to feel Slip’s last breath escape his lungs or smell the villager’s fear or feel the thump of their target’s bodies hit the sand). It didn’t matter. Escape mattered, and he’d have to fly this transport by himself. He needed a pilot, but he’d never find one in time.
With his panicked breaths coming quicker and quicker, Eight-Seven had been forced to ripped off his helmet, the white plastoid too oppressive to think in. It was easier to breathe, easier to plan with it off. He’d need to find a manual, there was always a manual, or even if he blew the damn thing up death would still count as escape or maybe he could – freeze, because a voice had come out of nowhere. The trooper slowly turned, still shaking, unable to control the fear on his face after a lifetime of being hidden.
“Not being able to breathe is riskier, sir.” Eight-Seven’s shaking hands gripped the helmet tightly, slipping on the still-wet trails of blood.
Helmet off, and they bleed the same. His eyes fall to the copper liquid streaked across the once gleaming white armor. The trooper is smudged and dirty from his mission. The First Order had prided themselves on efficiency and orderliness, of regulation procedures to ensure optimal functioning, something this trooper currently failed systemically on all accounts. It had been a good long while since he’d spotted such a raw display of emotion. Elevated breathing rate, cold sweat, trembling fingers – all signs of a man on the verge of a panic attack.
Unspoken, he tries to recall his own first mission and feels some surprise to draw an irrefutable blank. Each one had blurred into the next, the mission and the target ( mission accomplished, General Dameron ). He’d been his parent’s child; a prodigal child in service to their mission, one that passed from the age of the Empire into the one of the First Order. Unlike these troopers, he’d been born on a Destroyer, and was groomed to be the best of them. They had taken his parent’s achievements and tripled the expectation laid upon him till he breathed and bled their cause, and proven it time and again. Loyalty was something they could work with, but fear was the wild card. He'd always hated those regulation reconfigs, even if the system sanctioned the need for it. Casting a glance towards the outside of the ship, he takes a step deeper into its depths, closer to the stormtrooper, but still maintaining a degree of detached distance.
❝ I will require a report on what happened during the mission, ❞ he instructs, his tone even but almost inquisitive. He wanted to know what could’ve caused one of their own to waver, and, perhaps, how they may avoid it in the future. ❝ And what is your name? ❞
prguitarman
jbbartram-illu
pixelskylines
