Chapter Text
FN-2187 came back to awakeness with a hissing exhale.
His head felt like it had been cracked open, ears ringing with a high and shrill noise, until FN-2187 was only able to tell up from down by the painful press of armour where he was sprawled on the ground.
What…
His eyes were streaming, squinted against a mercilessly bright light that wasn't visible outside or inside his helmet, and his limbs were trembling hard enough to rattle the plastoid. He'd been frightened… and then an explosion, pain like nothing he'd ever felt before…
Realisation sparked.
FN-2187’s eyes snapped open, heartrate skyrocketing as adrenaline resurged. The memories slammed home like an elbow to the temple.
The Sabre… the laser cannons, the woman and Kylo Ren and…
He sucked in a harsh breath, the shush of his ventilator echoing far too loudly in the dark, empty hall, before scrambling to get his elbows under him to sit upright. His head snapped to the side, hands fumbling to find his injuries, looking for Kylo Ren who had been an instant from killing him when-
FN-2187’s helmet swung with the momentum, twisting his visor to half-way around the back of his head.
Startled, FN-2187 was shocked to stillness. Stormtroopers were all within a certain, narrow margin of size, since nothing was custom and everything was made to be replaced and recirculated as needed. But FN-2187 was fully grown, a little tall actually, so why-?
FN-2187 was in armour that didn't fit anymore, surrounded by thousands of lights that hadn't been there before. He wasn't injured, dying or otherwise, no matter what his aching bones told him. There was no evidence of the battle, no evidence of the ion cannons he'd felt burst through the doors. The body of the woman was gone from the steps that led up to the chair, nothing to suggest the gory murder. The room was… empty.
He was alone.
FN-2187 breathed out slowly, unable to ignore the shake of it as the ventilator resounded far too loudly in the domed hall.
There was no sound of fighting, of dying, outside. The scatterings of star-like lights were glowing brighter and more numerous than FN-2187 had ever felt them, more so than the galaxy aboard the Finalizer in deep space.
FN-2187’s fingers twitched, folds of loose fabric catching between them. He didn't know what…
In his lap, having fallen from his chest-plate with a clatter when he’d jerked upright, the Sabre seemed to hum louder in response to something.
FN-2187 ripped off his helmet.
The air was cool on his face, his skin covered in a light film of sweat from the adrenaline as much as the stifling press of his armour, and it was blissful as he sucked in three large breaths, chest puffing out as he dragged them in. He wanted to collapse inwards, devoting himself to the feeling of being alive, but FN-2187’s mind never stopped whirling, especially not for his own sake; the tension was too pressing to ignore for longer than a few seconds.
FN-2187 turned the helmet in his hands. The blood-streaked visor stared back at him.
A face, familiar in the way that felt more like a dream than reality. Stormtropopers rarely saw their own reflections, only glimpses in the mirror-like walls of the sonic before the surfaces steamed over. They had no mirrors, no vanity… but FN-2187 knew himself, lifting a hand to feel the roundness of his cheek and the close stubble of his hair, wide eyes and full mouth and rounded chin.
He was young - FN-2187 had no data for his origin, none of them did - as though he’d yet to be designated to the Finalizer. As if he was still with the Cadets at the training facility , one face in ten-thousand, based on a planet he’d never seen or learned the name for.
What…?
FN-2187 didn't believe in things that defied logic. He’d listened to the whispers of mystical Jedi warriors and refused to suspend his disbelief, not that it had felt like it mattered when they were so removed from the rest of the galaxy. Magic didn't do anything for them, didn't exist to a Stormtrooper except as something to shoot at when ordered to. Even when the ship was haunted by Kylo Ren, he was more fantasy than reality, and FN-2187 didn't think about it.
(FN-2187 did eerie, unexplainable things, and resolutely did not think about them.
He refused to think about it so much that no one else thought about it in connection with him, either.)
But this- this had no explanation.
It wasn't a dream. FN-2187 didn't think he was that creative - he’d never had much in the way of material, for that, and even glimpses at Kade Genti flimsi only offered so much - and they wouldn't explain how he’d woken up here. Dreaming the past however-many cycles wouldn't explain how vivid it had all been, how long and complicated, how he was still on that strange planet, his first deployment, with the mysterious Sabre in his grasp but no woman in sight and no Kylo Ren.
He’d had more than one waking nightmare of Kylo Ren executing him, for one reason or another, in that hangar alone. None of those fantasies had been quite like this.
There was no way FN-2187 could just keep sitting there, though; he rolled to his knees, limbs aching in protest, before staggering once he'd got his feet under him, slipping the too-big helmet back over his head and gripping the Sabre in one hand. The rest of his armour was similarly over-sized, connected to his underblacks but locking at every intersection; the underblacks, under the weight of it all, sagged from his shoulders and crumpled around his wrists, joints, and ankles. The pieces of plastoid clacked against each other as he staggered forward a step in his comically large boots before a hand found the wall and he could brace himself.
What had happened? Had he shrunk? Growth tubes were so much more comprehensive and they'd only ever functioned in the other direction-
FN-2187’s heart was still trying to pound through his ribcage, fear lending a fine tremble to his hands, but he only gave himself a moment to breathe, swallowing, before he forced himself to think of what to do next.
He couldn't go back to his Unit. They weren't here , that much was painfully obvious, but it was even more complicated than that; there was no excuse in existence that would spare FN-2187 from being experimented upon by Higher Command. He had no explanation for why he’d been so far from the fighting, still carrying his unfired blaster, with the woman’s plasmablade having been stolen from the hand of Kylo Ren to boot.
He also couldn't stay here. He needed to think, to come up with a plan, and if it wasn't the First Order on the other side of those doors, then it was the warriors who, for all they hadn't seemed the type to agree with the First Order, hadn't hesitated to kill his fellow Troopers either. FN-2187 was a Trooper without backup, in armour that was more hindrance than help, and carrying the sword that the woman had died to keep from Kylo Ren.
It was not looking good.
FN-2187 staggered his way to the doorway he’d first come through, retreating back into the darkness of that small corridor, and found another door, tucked behind the curved staircase, that led even further down. There was no curl of premonition in his gut as he went through, however, so FN-2187 decided to just push ahead and hope this way took him out a back door. Somewhere indiscriminate, where he could just… slip away.
“It's just a simulation,” FN-2187 breathed to himself, barely croaking a sound in his helmet. He hadn't spoken aloud in over a full rotation.
The Sabre in his hands seemed to vibrate a little harder, as if in response. FN-2187 flatly ignored it.
There were people down here, FN-2187 knew in the way he could sense the moment Double-Nought lost his temper. It was something in the air, he was sure, like a tang that wasn't quite taste or smell but detectable all the same. It was different for everyone, like how Troopers’ were never totally indistinguishable even when in formation, but all carried a similar enough undercurrent for FN-2187 to pick up meaning.
The people here, now, were distant, milling about on floors above him and muted in the same way the warriors had been before. There was something about these halls, a numbing effect on his tongue like biting it without the surge of pain. Like his usual awareness was… deadened. It was just enough, however, for FN-2187 to continue down towards the back of the building uninterrupted, picking his way down stairwells and going deeper and deeper into the city.
He wasn't sure how far down they went, what exactly he was looking for; after the last time he’d followed his instincts - leading him into this current mess - FN-2187 would've liked to have ignored every warning sign and run in the exact opposite direction. But, well, he had no other option. He had to keep going.
It got dark again and, this time without blasterfire to brighten the shadows or with anyone aware of his presence, FN-2187 risked turning on the torch attached to his visor. A pale, white beam of light illuminated the steps in front of him, wavering through dust motes and the wobble of his oversized helmet.
He kept going.
After a while, the stone around him changed again. It was no longer smooth but rough, with a mustiness in the air that reminded FN-2187 of cleaning duties spent scrubbing dirt from ships returning from deployment, of crouching in the ventilation shafts and scraping debris from the grates on the fans. It was obvious that these paths were not well-tred, which either was a good thing - that he wasn't about to be caught - or terrible - in that he was heading to a dead-end. He was inclined towards the former, more because the corridors became more like tunnels that led somewhere specific than any sense of optimism, and was proven right when the path was stopped around the next corner by a pair of heavy doors.
FN-2187 took the moment for a breather; it had taken him a while to walk this far, feet sliding around in boots that were far too big, and he was feeling sorer than he should have from the discomfort of it all.
Any lingering dregs of optimism, however, were eradicated once FN-2187 had taken a closer look at the doors themselves.
There was a panel mounted to the wall to one side, one that required access codes to gain entry, and was of a kind that FN-2187 didn't even know how to begin breaking. The walls were thick enough to repel blasterfire, and narrow enough that ricochet was as serious threat, and FN-2187 wouldn't have risked the sound to begin with; the last thing he needed was a corridor of warriors finding him like a trapped mousedroid.
FN-2187 slumped against the doors, which didn't even shift, and briefly considered throwing himself on the ground and letting the warriors kill him. It would be faster than rotting in his own armour.
“It’s over,” he sighed, pulling the hydration pouch from his meagre rations stash. He tipped his helmet off again before tearing into the seal, drinking too fast to enjoy the relief. He’d need to be careful with what little supplies he had; Troopers never carried much on them, certainly nothing to weigh them down.
In the crook of his arm, the Sabre slid, awkward, from where he’d wedged it against his ribs. FN-2187 fumbled the empty pouch, trying to catch the sword before it dropped, but his gloves were ungainly and he managed to hit-
The Sabre ignited with a rasp of plasma, blinding and hungry and victorious, as the length of it extended straight through the door with an unholy shriek.
“Argh!” FN-2187 yelped along with it, somehow keeping his grip on the prommel, and yanked the blade from the metal door when, turning too fast, he tripped over his own boots.
The door hissed from the abuse, almost bisected with a burning line, edges glowing molten.
FN-2187 stared down at the blade in disbelief before looking back at the door. Well. It was done now, there was little point in lamenting the evidence of his presence. The sword had been very loud, he needed to move quickly, and in fact…
“That’ll work.”
It was, FN-2187 noted, frighteningly easy to cut through inches of solid metal. He tried not to recall how Kylo Ren had nearly bisected the woman with a single motion, how he’d moved to carve FN-2187 from above. Better, instead, to focus on holding the Sabre steady as he cut down the edge of one door.
Once the hinges were severed, FN-2187 shifted the door aside just enough to slip through the gap, plastoid clattering as it was scraped, only to freeze on the other side.
The room was a low-roofed but long chamber, unlit except for his own helmet-torch, and… absolutely filled with armour.
FN-2187’s next exhale was far too loud.
This was as close to a morgue as he could fathom.
With hesitant - and clumsy - steps, FN-2187 picked his way further into the room, until the door was hidden behind piles of armour and he was struggling to grasp the scale of this tomb.
They were clustered by item, rather by set, and, unlike Troopers, the armour had been clearly customised, so many sizes and shapes and styles and colours. The categorisation was clinical and all the more upsetting for it, like an inventory of corpses. FN-2187 wasn't sure why it was impacting him so much, after having lived a life where a Trooper’s armour was everything they were and just as interchangeable and replaceable as their lives… but the warriors had been so much more, in the brief moments FN-2187 had seen them. They had a city to defend, a people, a belonging, and even though they’d been killing FN-2187’s peers, even though he’d held Slips as he’d died, the sight of their own massacre didn't incite anything remotely related to satisfaction.
It all felt so lost .
FN-2187’s feet took him even deeper, moving extra slowly as he struggled to pick his way between the piles but determined to avoid disturbing them anyway, until he found the helmets.
They were so different, the most characterful of all the pieces. Different sizes and shapes, some of them intended for species that weren't human-standard, which was a bit of a shock considering how stringent the First Order was in its recruitment. But here, here they all had metal helmets carefully made to their exact styles and requirements. There was little designs in the paint, chipped and scraped as it was, and buttons and accessories that were so painfully individual. It was care, dedication, respect, all things that FN-2187 had never realised how much had been lacking from the First Order until this moment.
(FN-2096 had been several inches too short for armour and, when they'd been taken, they'd never returned.)
A mountain of helmets, vizors glinting in the light of his torch, stared back at him.
Some of these, FN-2187 knew down to his bones, had been mourned. There was a tang of sorrow, of grief, of regret that clung to their paint like a smear of grease. Others were tainted with disgust, with fear, like they'd been tossed aside with as much haste as possible. Most, perhaps even more disquieting than the rest, had been handled with a total lack of regard, a horrible indifference to the way they’d been made. They'd been dropped.
FN-2187 had been disposable and interchangeable his whole life. It touched something in him, to see the armour - the symbols of who those warriors had been - treated in such a way when they’d once been so much more.
Stormtroopers were disposable, had nothing, were nothing without their purpose. The warriors? The warriors had been brutally alive in a way the First Order had never been. Between the two, they weren't supposed to be the shells.
To the left-hand side of the pile, a helmet that was smaller than most stared back at him. FN-2187 picked it up, angling so the glint of his torch wasn't blinding in the reflection, and felt guilt snake its way down his throat.
He knew what he needed to do. He felt awful, anyway.
(Good Stormtroopers didn't feel remorse or guilt or grief. They were trained to complete the mission, to value objectives over their own lives or the lives of those around them. They were pragmatic to a fault.
FN-2187 was a terrible Stormtrooper.
He was also, however, a very well-trained one.)
FN-2187 was careful with what he took, starting with the white helmet, which was small enough that it barely rattled on his head. He was able to remove the torch from the Trooper helmet and clip it to the side of the new one, in a slot where something similar had once been attached. Then, after a bit of scrounging, he found a chest plate that, whilst badly scratched and with the red almost completely flaked off, covered the important bits, which was followed by a black back-plate that had clips that matched up along the sides to connect the two pieces. The warriors’ style lacked armour for the upper arms, and overall was less comprehensive, but FN-2187 couldn't keep his own plastoid ones when his arms were so much shorter now.
He hadn't seen any warriors before that were as small as he was now but the existance of smaller armour had to be proof that this disguise would work.
Attaching the forearm plates was a little trickier, so used to the plastoid ones that had seams that snapped together like a shell, but there were straps attached to some of the older pieces - newer ones seems to have a magnetic plate on the reverse which couldn't connect to his underblacks - that FN-2187 used to tie around his arms and legs. He found what he could - and, in the case of his legs, he doubled up the armour by tying a second set of front plates to protect the back - and was left to stomach the discomfort he felt regarding the exposed spots. If someone took a shot at his upper arms, he’d be karked with nothing between him and the blow but a thin layer of his compression blacks. Plastoid wasn't good but at least it was something. Even the oversized pauldrons didn't cover that far down his arm, and the delicate - vulnerable - spot of his inner elbow was, aggravatingly, left unprotected. There were no replacements for his boots but two pieces of metal, evidently intended to cover the top of the foot, were strapped on as tightly as he could knot them and squeezed his feet, holding them at least partially in place.
Fully kitted, FN-2187 attached the Sabre to the belt he’d taken from the warrior who'd killed Slip, what felt like so long ago; it was, again, too big but it did the job when knotted instead of buckled. Then he moved what little supplies he had - another two hydration pouches, four ration bars, a set of cuffs and two charge-packs for his blaster - into the three pockets that weren't already bulging.
On the floor of the chamber, his plastoid armour looked very much like a scattered pile of bones. The sense of foreboding - a death, at least of some kind - washed over him.
This was the end.
It had been the end, the moment he’d refused to shoot the warrior trying to kill him, the moment he’d slunk away from the battle to hide in corridors on the whim of something he still couldn't name. It had been the end the moment he’d touched the Sabre, the moment he’d defied Kylo Ren, the moment he’d woken up again and found-
This meant something, if nothing else. Shedding the only skin he’d ever known and putting on the armour of those that were the First Order’s enemies.
FN-2187 had always been, for all his talent, a terrible Stormtrooper.
Now, he wasn't even that.
He was- something else and maybe this way… he’d find out what else there was to be.
At his waist, the Sabre hummed again, and that was all the encouragement FN-2187 needed.
FN-2… no. No batch number, no designation code. FN-2187 had been a Stormtrooper.
The boy that left the chamber, wearing warrior armour and carrying the Sabre, had forsaken that life.
He was… FN.
Just FN.
(And he was the only one.)
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
It had been, in hindsight, too much to hope that borrowing warrior armour would've allowed FN-21- allowed FN the ability to keep his head down and blend in.
After scouring all corners of the room, even sticking his head up some strange pipes in the ceiling, FN had been forced to admit that this way had been a dead-end. He’d left back the way he’d come, returning to the corridor connected to the great hall and then turning to cut to the far right-hand side. That way, he’d noticed during the fighting, was where one of the largest buildings had caved under the weight of the collapsed dome; he hoped that, as night passed, it could provide him enough cover to get to the outskirts.
This plan was immediately ruined when, as FN rounded the corner, he picked up on a clamour of activity nearby.
There was no fighting, at least, but the lack of it was alarm for a different reason. The streets, FN-2-that FN saw from the window as he poked his head over the edge, were not abandoned. A few people moved about, opening their doors and moving tables directly into the streets, but there was no sense of an aftermath of conflict, no evidence that the fighting from earlier had even happened.
And not a single one of them was wearing armour.
FN felt a bolt of panic - maybe the warriors had been invaders before the First Order had arrived, after all, and these people were the true locals - before an even more pressing detail registered.
The dome above their heads was untouched, interrupted only by vaults that opened up to the outside, each surrounded by mirrors angled to catch what little light came through in the night. It was vast, the highest point of the dome indistinguishable from the darkness, but so perfectly whole. Beneath it all, darkened with inactivity but regularly interrupted by lights that flickered with so many different colours, the city lay, untouched by anything that had happened since FN's arrival.
It was like none of it had ever existed.
This was a city teeming with people, muted and sleeping as they were, and even so late at night…
The First Order were not here. By the looks of things, they'd somehow never been here.
Which left FN, Sabre in hand, stranded in the middle of a city teeming with warriors or these other people alike. There were blocks of people, of buildings, of walls and security and clearance protocols, between FN and the outside.
FN twisted away from the window, metal back-plate chiming at it struck the stone wall before it scraped in protest as he slid down until he could sit on the floor. His hands were shaking again, and the ringing had started back up again.
Oh, Stars, FN may as well lie down and die, here and now and save himself from a firing squad. How was he supposed to-
FN put his head between his knees and shook his way through his fear.
One minute turned into two, into five, into ten.
FN trembled.
He focused on the floor, stone shockingly cold without plastoid covering his ass, and then, when it had warmed enough to no longer work, noted the deep, thrumming of the Sabre on the belt. He unlatched it with shaking hands, his own gloves still too big, and gripped it so hard that he felt every vibration in his bones. He held it hard, hands shuddering in front of him, until he was sure it was the rumbling of the sword itself and not his own fear that was causing it.
His breathing slowed, evened, and the strangled knot of despair slowly unwound from his chest.
Okay… okay.
He couldn't stay here.
The Sabre wasn't just an ordinary sword, it could easily cut through durasteel; all FN-1… all he needed to do was find a way to reach the outer wall and then an exit. He could make an exit.
Okay.
FN sat there for another few thundering heartbeats before he couldn't justify the delay any longer and stood, wincing at the scrape of metal on stone that was even louder than the creak of plastoid. The streets were still emptier than they could've been, although the risk of a heavier crowd grew more and more likely as FN wasted time, and there were still plenty of shadows; besides the pale colour of FN’s borrowed helmet, the rest of his salvaged replacements were relatively dark in colour and would blend well enough. He just needed to get to the wall.
Okay.
That was a task, something to fixate his energy on: Get to the wall.
“It's a simulation,” FN breathed, resettling the helmet on straight, and leaning around the door, left hand hovering over the ‘open’ button.
Just like the climbing wall, just like the snipers, just like every drill he’d ever run.
It's a simulation…
FN’s breathing evened, falling into a kind of trance and urged on by the Sabre still clenched in his fist. The tension eased from his frame, shifting from panicked to prepared, and then, like a striking jab, FN opened the door.
There were steps leading down to the road, set at a forty-five degree angle from the main-doors that looked out over the city to the left, and a handful of people that appeared to be organising their resources for the day ahead. Service staff, FN belatedly realised, like working Canteen Duty; he immediately ducked down the steps and to the darkest shadow in the corner when one glanced over, with little more than idle curiosity, at the sound of the door.
FN didn't wait to see if they’d taken note of him; there was a path that followed along the side of the building, dividing off between the blocks on this side; the main building he’d woken in, where Kylo Ren had killed the woman and the warriors from before had blockaded themselves in, was set apart from the others and obviously was important. Like the Bridge on the Finalizer, a place FN had never once stepped foot or seen but was where all the action apparently happened.
The next road was closer and darker and gave the feeling of being much more sheltered than it probably was. FN moved quickly, unwilling to sprint and attract even more attention but still getting as much distance covered as he could.
There were people on the move however, swaying as if disorientated… or drunk , like the Officers were occasionally, although they were never seen again if one of the Captains suspected anything. Avoiding them forced FN to take short-cuts, to duck and hide; he squeezed between gates and wove between stairs, boosting himself onto ledges of buildings to climb out of their line of sight. It was frustrating, the stop-starting and climbing with shoes and gloves that were too big, but FN tried to not let that get to him; he breathed through it, keeping his mind as empty as he could, letting the sensations wash over him as he focused on each movement, on the people moving around him, on the Sabre either ready in his grip or, when he needed both hands free, humming at his waist.
The city was even larger than FN had previously feared; when they’d arrived last night, the dome ceiling had been torn open and they’d landed inside of it, barely having far to run before hitting the action. Now, however, FN was confronted with exactly how much had been lost to the violence before his Unit had deployed; they must've bombed these districts of the city, to have ruined them so absolutely - and FN-2187 was still not thinking about how everything could be undamaged now - but then how had any of the warriors possibly survived that? How could then have seen the total destruction and kept fighting anyway?
It said something, deeper than he had the understanding or words to convey, FN knew. It spoke of devotion, of a loyalty that the First Order had tried to beat into them but that, for FN at least, had never seemed to stick. Not like this, not to be so fierce in the face of such desperate odds, to not give into despair…
He ducked his helmet, scampering across a junction of roads, and continued pressing on regardless. Maybe, at the heart of all this, the issue was that FN wasn't a fighter; it was that FN, more than anything, was a coward.
(The Sabre vibrated, bone-deep, again. FN ignored the disapproval.)
It was too much to hope that FN’s already terrible luck could hold out long enough to see him relatively smoothly to the outer wall. In reality, he got a quarter of the way there.
Eventually, however, he was spotted.
They shouted at first, loud and shocked and jarring enough that FN didn't even catch what exactly it was they said. There were two of them, walking with the stride and the matching - flowing - uniforms of some kind of patrol, and their expressions flashed with almost comical surprise at the sight of FN darting between pole-lamps.
They froze at the sight of him.
FN, caught, stared straight back at them.
They definitely didn't look like armoured warriors.
Something, like a breath on the back of his neck, told FN that this wasn't a good thing .
“Stop right there,” the first one barked, as the second raised a hand, fingers reaching for something small - a whistle, like Trainer 56 used, or a comm, perhaps-
FN reacted as if someone had drawn a blaster at him - they may as well have - and just started running .
There was a moment of surprise - as if they couldn't believe he hadn't listened, which was odd enough - before two sets of footsteps started up behind him. One let out a deafening whistle, the kind that pierced the ears and had several lights in windows flickering on - oh no, a call to arms? - and then FN really started to sprint.
It didn't matter, then, that his feet were sliding around in his boots, that his breath was too loud in his borrowed helmet, that the Sabre felt unmistakeably keen in his hand; FN let his vision narrow like a tunnel and just booked it down the street. The city roads were busy, cluttered in a way that was more like a warzone than the sterile, empty hallways at the facility or on board the Finalizer, but also nothing like before and it was so strange and foreign and it slowed FN down considerably but it also provided ample cover.
The Guards were taller than him, fully grown in a city they knew well, but FN had always run the fastest time, even when he shouldn't have been able to, and now he only had more incentive not to get caught. They tore down the road, FN swerving into a narrow side-path and looping across to the right in the hope of losing them - to no success - before the danger of the Guard made itself even more known.
The next time FN crossed onto a different road, there were two more Guards looking for him.
“Halt!” The one closest to him shouted, pulling a small, hand-sized blaster from a holster on their waist. “Armour and weaponry is forbidden in the city! Lay down your arms and-”
The Sabre ignited with a hiss-snap-!
FN had not done that.
The Guard went white, shock lurching into a deep, gnarled fear, before their blaster came up.
Behind FN, the first two Guards rounded the corner and blocked him from going back the way he’d come.
Oh no.
“Lower your weapon, you have one more chance!”
It didn't feel like FN had any.
The Sabre made the decision for him, however. FN couldn't see how he could logically explain this one without sounding like a liar or, even worse, insane.
The Sabre yanked FN forwards, blade first.
FN did the only thing he could, which was hold on and lunge after it.
The Guard fired the shot, a mercifully blue stun charge, but FN was already ducking, going low and swinging the Sabre up to carve the blaster in two.
The Guard dropped it with a shout, the heat of the blade passing close enough to feel, but didn't retreat any further and, instead, brought a leg up as if to kick FN away from them.
Their height difference - over a foot - was even more obvious now that FN was close; he could taste their realisation, their hesitation, the moment it registered and it was FN’s turn to follow through. Blaster disposed of, FN followed the swing of the Saber, bringing up his other hand to plant a punishing punch right on the Guard’s chin.
They dropped like a sack, unconscious, only for the Guard behind them to open fire with their own stun-blaster. Missing the shots by a hair, FN threw himself behind the closest building, head whipping around for an alternate route.
“Come out with your hands up!”
There was a pole, which had a light beaming down from the top, and FN was holding a plasmablade. He swung it.
The pole careened over with a shriek of abused metal and smashed into the stone road, bulb popping in an explosion of glass and electricity. The guards flinched backwards, covering their faces against the light and shards, and FN took the opening to dart between buildings and squeeze himself, with an ugly scrape of metal, between the jammed doors.
The distraction bought FN enough time to cross into a different district, the ground covered in packed-down squares of stone that clattered under the wheels of a traveller’s cart, rolling down the hill ahead of FN. It was a large shipment of what looked like mechanical parts, partially covered by a dirty cloth that hung off the back; lengthening his stride, FN was able to catch the edge of the cart and hitch a ride to the end of the block.
Then, as the cart turned to go further into that part of the city, FN hopped from the back and immediately made cover by a large shipment of crates, which looked to have been half-unloaded and then left for the next shift of work.
It was lighter by now, a slow transition from the darkness of rest periods to the brightness of active duty. FN had never known anything but artificial light, for the barracks to be alternatively plunged into pitch blackness and then yanked out of it, all according to a timer. Here, however, the mirrors set into the dome above the city had gone from reflecting the blackness outside to a deep blue, then a purple, and, now, a pale pink.
(Pink like Sixer’s skin, scattered with marks that one of the Trainers had, in a mutter, called ‘sun-spots’ despite the fact none of them had ever seen a sun that wasn't just another distant star in space.
Pink like how Double-Nought’s ears turned, that pale red colour that got darker and darker the longer anyone stared at them during ration breaks.
Pink like the colour of FN’s own nails, on the rare occasion he wasn't wearing gloves, pausing to examine them as he scrubbed his hands clean in the sonic.)
It was almost daytime - the sun for this planet was rising, something FN had never experienced before - but it meant that the city was coming alive. It meant FN was running out of time.
The walls of the dome were much closer now though, where FN could assumed the shipments and merchants entered through, and FN had never interacted with these kinds of people before but, well, if they were as busy as the mechanics from the hangar, then there was a chance that FN had even less time than he feared before these roads were a hoard of activity.
He just needed a patch of the wall, not even a door to break open; he’d cut one himself if he had to, would abseil out the other side if necessary-
Resolved, closer than ever - he’d come this far - FN set his shoulders and, rounding the next palet, took off running.
He made it possibly six-hundred feet before he heard that distinctive whistling again.
Cursing his luck, FN quickened his stride, boots pounding on stone as he made flat-out for the nearest stretch of wall, feeling the prickle of awareness up the back of his neck as the Guards - two from before, three new - caught up with him.
“Stop!”
A blaster shot fired behind him and FN had thrown himself sideways before conscious thought could kick in, landing on his shoulder and rolling upright to face the Guard - curse his shorter legs! - bearing down on him.
Again, the Guard hesitated in the face of FN’s evident youth, the hard furrow of their brows soothing with something like dismay, before FN planted a harsh kick in their gut and they sprawled backwards.
Their grip on their stun-blaster had slackened in their distraction and FN was able to wrestle it away without much of a struggle; this time, when his finger caught on the trigger, FN had no issue pulling it.
The Guard dropped, point blank, and then FN swung the blaster around and fired four more shots, catching the second Guard as they tried to duck behind another pallet and then the third when they peered out to return fire.
The fourth and fifth had better coverage than FN liked. Since he didn't want to get drawn into a shoot-out that would only buy the Guards more time to gather reinforcements to overwhelm him, FN emptied the charge to keep the Guards back as he skittered backwards towards the wall.
It was just lucky, for once, that there were two huge hanger-like doors close by, so at least FN didn't have to worry about carving an exit whilst under fire.
The blaster clicked, out of shots so quickly that FN pulled the trigger several times before he realised what had happened. Unprepared, with the remaining two Guards looming down on him, FN tossed the useless blaster at the nearest one - who ducked it with an strange curse - and broke into a sprint as the other Guard opened fire.
He dodged, imagining that he could feel the heat of the nearing bolts enough to shift enough that nothing landed; logically, they should've been moving too quickly for a human to react to in time and, yet, that was what he was doing. Slanting his body just enough, stepping forward just quick enough so they scorched stone but never him. A hairsbreadth every time, unnerving, and-
There.
There were people at the doors, workers and travellers alike, but the sound of blasterfire had them shouting and scrambling for cover. There were shots going wild, the worker behind the entry-station had their own blaster that they were pulling out and-
A Guard on a speeder, revving loudly as it took the corner too fast, skidding off balance and set to hit FN broadside-
The Sabre crackled to life, scalding hot and eager for action, and FN planted a foot and twisted himself round, tilting the blade just so - despite never having used a weapon like this, all too easy - and reflected the incoming stun-bolt into the Guard behind. They crumpled, mind falling quiet with unconsciousness, as FN followed the moveent around. He planted a foot on the speeder's driver, momentum tearing them from their seat, to land straddling the bike as it finally screeched to a halt.
The engine rumbled, loud, between his thighs, one hand on the handlebar and the Sabre hissing in the other, and FN had never driven anything before but his foot shot out before he could overthink it, kicking a switch, and the bike shot forwards.
It roared, FN pulling back sharply so that it veered directly over the people - ducking, shouting, some in helmets, others armoured but halfway through shedding their kit, as if the city had forbidden them, as if - to launch right through the open doors of the dome.
FN landed with a gutteral roar of the engine, debris in its grate and jolted by the abuse, on the pale sand outside. Dust kicked up immediately, specks against his visor as FN angled the speeder sideways before he could bury it in a dune, foot dragging through the soft sand behind them, and-
The desert was vast, all layered pale hills as far as the eye could see, and the sky was a delicate, tentative orange.
It was the most beautiful thing FN could ever imagine.
“Stop that kid!” Someone shouted from inside, Guards shoving through the cowering travellers. “They’re a soldier for Death Watch!”
That was motivating. FN shot a final look over his shoulder and his mouth opened around the kind of comeback that would’ve had him reconditioned for insubordination.
“I’m not!” FN shouted, feeling an incredulous grin stretch his mouth beneath his helmet as he waved the Sabre like some kind of trophy.
He’d barely smiled before now, let alone so widely, and the incredulous buoyancy - of this, however temporary, liberation, the Sabre all but singing in his grasp and the dunes beckoning him deeper - immediately made him addicted to the feel.
The whole world was bright and open, sprawled out in front of him, and he was somehow still alive-
“I’m free now!”
And then, FN rode straight into the desert.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Mornings were slow in the Compound, usually by the consequence that Jaster - and the rest of his Commanders - worked late into the night.
It was just how these things worked out, intel coming late over the comms, ensuring that jobs and contracts had been received and confirmed for the next day, keeping tabs on their resources- and paperwork , endless paads of paperwork, always. Jaster should've guessed that his campaign would end up bogged down by bureaucracy but, by the Ka’ra, this was too much.
Jango - the furthest thing from an early riser and therefore another reason why mornings within their home were relatively slow - always called Jaster a madman for dedicating his - dwindling - personal time to ‘reading a bunch of dusty old books’. Amidst the complaints about being ‘boring’, and the teasing about Jaster ruining his eyesight - the addition of reading glasses had gone down like a shrapnel grenade - Jango was admittedly concerned for his Buir ’s health. But what he didn't understand was that historical manuscripts, as dry as they could admittedly be, were from a different world to paperwork, in Jaster’s eyes; they were his passion, they were the inspiration for the very Creed that the Ha’at Mando’ade swore their lives by, and Jaster was sure that the answers to their peoples’ future could also be found in those ancient stories.
Jango was… less convinced. Not that his son’s complaints had any real heat to them or that Jaster was phased by them. It just meant that, when Jaster wasn't in the field or locked into back-to-back meetings, Jango knew to find him in their - extensive - compound library.
It was mid-morning, several hours after Jaster had risen and had his own breakfast, when the Mand’alor was roused from the piles of flimsi on his desk by the slamming of the main door.
The compound was expansive, sprawling, and appeared from the air to be several bunkers, as their connecting tunnels were concealed underground or by the cut of cliff-rock that they’d built in the shadow of. The wing that House Meerel used - belonging, officially, only to Jaster and Jango, but used more as a base of operations for their closest vode - was in the middle, with a tunnel from the back that led as an emergency exit deeper into the hills. The front, however, was exposed to the main courtyard and racket was easily heard from across the other side of the building.
Jaster lifted his head, eyebrow quirked at whoever was banging around before noon - Jango, for all he claimed he was ‘a man’ at sixteen, was dramatic enough to throw a tantrum if someone disturbed his sleep - and readied a response to Jango's anticipated quip about ‘boring history kark’. All humour fled, however, when Myles appeared in the doorway, tension all but thrumming through his armour.
“What’s happened?” Jaster demanded, dropping his stylus as his hands found the arms of his chair, prepared to launch himself into action.
Myle’s buy’ce unlocked with a hiss, shoving it under his arm and running his other hand through his twisted hair. His blue, Pantoran skin had gained a faintly chalky colour with the force of his distress.
“We’ve received some transmissions, Alor,” Myles began, mouth tight. “They’re Hinda's allit , merchants. It’s- they’re certain they saw the Darksaber in Sundari.”
Jaster went cold, his chair screeching as he shoved it away. “Vizsla’s attacking the city? Have the aruetiise called for help?”
Myles didn't step aside to let Jaster through the doorway as he rounded his desk, swallowing when Jaster met his eyes impatiently.
“There was no attack, Alor… any actual Kry’stad haven't been sighted in or near the city.”
Jaster paused at that. A conflict of information? But why would Myles entertain it if so? “What exactly was seen then? Tor wouldn't let the Darksaber out of his reach, let alone sight, so-”
It felt impossible that, after all these years of Jaster trying to corner Tor for a trial of combat to win the blade of Manda’lor the Guardian, the blade had seemingly appeared within the self-professed ‘New Mandalorian’ capital without warning.
In fact, it was so ridiculous that, should it prove true, Jaster wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or slide straight into annoyance over it. Definitely drink something stronger than kaf, though.
“That’s the craziest part!” Myles interjected, ignoring Jaster’s incredulity. “It was in the hands of an ad’ika , running down the main street with those di'kut ‘Peacekeepers’ scrambling after them! I've seen ade fumble a wet bar of soap with more finesse-”
Jaster rather felt he was having an out-of-body experience. His stubble stung his palm as he scrubbed his hand across his face; Unfortunately, the entire situation didn't prove to be a research-fuelled hallucination when he looked up again.
“That Duke has the Darksaber?”
Jaster would rather it was still gathering dust in a Jetii archive than potentially being melted into slag by Adonai Kyrze’s diabolical ‘Peace Council’, those karking Republican sell-outs.
Myles actually cracked an - albeit shaky - smile at that one. “They couldn’t catch them, Alor . Little slip of a thing in too-big armour and they were all over the place. The ad ran rings around them before heading back out of the city!"
Hold on. Back up.
“You’re telling me that a child has the Darksaber and is out in the desert, right now?”
Myles’ smile was much more confident, now that he knew Jaster believed him. “I’ll send the footage to your buy’ce, Alor.”
Jaster reached for said helmet and his gloves. Kark, this was a better opportunity than he’d had in years to get his hands on Tarre Vizsla’s lightsaber - and protecting an ad, who’d had the guts to steal from Tor himself, from the fury of the Kry’stad ? Jaster’s bones were already singing with the promise of victory.
“Wake Jango, Myles. We lift off within the hour.”
By the Ka’ra , Jaster hoped they weren't too late, that the child was still out there, fighting.
Hold on, ad'ika. We’re coming.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
On Coruscant, the evening patrol of the Temple Guards was interrupted by Master Depa shouting for help, having found her Master collapsed in one of the alcoves overlooking the ‘Water Garden’.
Depa had gone looking for Mace when he was late to their joint mediation, a tradition that had carried over from her Padawan years. Mace, whilst busier than ever as the youngest Councilmember in the history of the Order, was not a man to be easily sidetracked or who’d forget something he’d promised to do. Busy? Yes. Inconsiderate? Only if he really disliked you. Depa had never, would never, be classified as the latter.
So, when ten minutes late had ticked into twenty, she’d set about checking the gardens, making sure he hadn't spontaneously picked a different corner for their meeting - he wouldn't have - and her concern had grown when she’d reached across the bond to find Mace… indisposed. At that time of night, it was only his health - which included bouts of the flu, hangovers, and chronic migraines - that could've sent Mace to bed, and never without warning.
Concern mounting, Depa had traced her way back to the wing of the Temple where Mace resided… only to finally pick up on her Master's Force-signature muted and in pain, not far from his quarters.
“Master,” she'd breathed, even with no one to hear, and rushed to his side.
He’d been lying close to the wall, sprawled in a way that meant he'd lost consciousness before the pain could force him into a braced position; a wound on the side of his head, from where he’d struck himself on the edge of the window-seat as he’d fallen, told a little more of what exactly had happened, but no other signs of foul play.
Depa had passed a hand over his brow, love and worry in her throat, but her touch had been steady and her voice smooth as she called for aid. A healer was quick to arrive before Mace was carried down to the Healing Hall for scans and treatment.
When he stirred several hours later, it was to the diagnosis of a concussion - and a warning that his brain had swollen slightly under the abuse - that was delivered by Master Che.
Depa, expression composed as any Knight in crisis but a coil of tenderness in her Force-signature, remained seated at his bedside.
“Was it a shatterpoint, Master?” She asked, carefully folding both of her hands around one of his, resting on top of the blanket.
“I certainly didn’t faint, Depa,” Mace grimaced, stomach rolling with nausea as he carefully shifted his bandaged head against the pillows propping him up. It had been too long, several months in fact, since he'd had an episode like this and he'd forgotten, somehow, the exact medley of pain and overstimulation.
“Master…” Depa chided him.
Mace conceded with less grace than he'd like.
“It was… sudden,” Mace frowned, skin folding into well-worn lines as he turned the facts over in his mind. “There was no build-up in the Force. Everything exists as an accumulation. For it to be a sudden change, one without clear origin, is… unprecedented.”
“I did wonder, when you were late but my comm didn't show that you'd alerted me either.” Depa’s mouth pursed in thought. “The Council won't…”
The Council were extremely, rightly, cautious of acting on unchecked information such as visions. The Order’s history was long, and the records were dedicatedly kept; there were several tragedies of varying scales, where visions of the future had swept Jedi into hysteria - the Padawan Massacre of the year 3964, being the foremost example of what fear could lead to - that had devasting results. Often, many Jedi learned the hard way, visions were self-fulfilling prophecies; warnings, cautions for preparation, but seldom circumvented.
Depa's Master had, himself from a young age, honed a sensitivity and an awareness of what his abilities - to locate, interact with, and impact shatterpoints - were capable of. Depa had never quite managed to pick it up but she was more than aware of just how skillful Mace was… and how it influenced him in turn. They had a system. It had worked, hadn't failed in fact for the past six years since her Knighting.
To collapse like this… Depa couldn't recall a time when a shatterpoint had been so serious. He’d fallen unconscious before, on several occasions and with varying severity, but often it was a twinge, a migraine, not…
Mace, sprawled with shocking stillness, red pooled beneath his temple and mind blurry and distant with agony.
“I will need to speak to them as soon as I can bring myself to rise,” Mace’s deep voice, rough with exhaustion and pain, interrupted Depa’s musing. His usual application of dead-pan humour did little to ease her worry.
“Maybe in the morning?” Depa countered, trying for lighthearted and ending somewhere closer to plaintive.
When Mace’s eyes - pupils still blown - opened again, she shifted her grip on his hand, thumb stroking over the jut of his knuckles. Through their bond, Mace shared a warmth and reassurance that he rarely showed openly to others. Her heart swelled.
“How bad was it?” She had to ask.
Mace’s mouth pressed flat, premature lines creasing brown skin. When he answered, her eyes closed against the rising trepidation.
“The largest I’ve ever felt.”
Force guide them all.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Hidden in the mines of Concordia, a certain warmonger awoke to find his ancestor’s blade was missing.
To say the news went down poorly, would be the grossest understatement.
“All verde to arms!” Tor Vizsla snarled, kicking aside the sprawled leg of the former Lieutenant who’d had the audacity to confirm that the security footage showed no leads. The room was ripe with the scent of blaster-burned flesh. “I want the thief found, dead or alive-!”
There was only one answer to that.
“Oya!”