finn (eightseven) wrote in thegalaxy, @ 2016-03-07 13:54:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !locale: space, !locale: the finalizer, !meme, finn, issan ren |
who: Finn FN-2187 and Issan
what: Insomnia Meme (1,5) Can't sleep, so talking happens.
when: Late Night, Backdated to back when he was just a loyal stormtrooper with anxiety issues.
where: On board the Finalizer?
rating: tbd?
---
He hadn't been able to sleep - an occurrence he wished didn't happen with such regularity. Sleepless nights always tended to follow simulations that were, in FN-2187's mind, especially cruel. With a muted sigh, he figured the best thing to do was to just go for a walk and clear his head. The best way to do that without getting too many questions was to suit up. Hidden behind the expressionless mask of his stormtrooper uniform, Eight-Seven wandered the halls of the Finalizer. Captain Phasma was lurking somewhere on the massive hunk of metal and he hoped he wouldn't come across her in his late night meanderings. They lacked purpose and they lacked the callous disregard for emotions that he knew she was such a a fan of. He hated these nights where sleep wouldn't come because it left him too much time with his own thoughts. Thoughts where he worried about whatever had to be wrong with him. Because something had to be. He second-guessed things. He found exercises cruel when others just thought they were fun. He couldn't clear his mind the way Nines or Zeroes seemed to do. He'd been raised into this as a child, just like they had been. And if he was being honest with himself, he was a better trooper than they were. He bested them in simulations all the time. So what was so wrong that he couldn't fall into the same routines?
Rounding a bend in the hallway, Eight-Seven paused in his walk. On this particularly isolated area, he listened for a moment and when he was convinced no one was around, he pulled off his helmet. Eight-Seven held the helmet in his hands for a moment, studying his reflection in the shining black visor, before hastily tucking it under his arm. Maybe he should have just stayed in quarters and watched holo-vids with the sound muted. The flashing colors could sometimes hypnotize him into sleep. Instead, Eight-Seven found himself in a hallway drowning in the dull First Order color scheme of black and grey and red. Standing in the hallways he marched dozens of times, in armor that felt like a second skin, Eight-Seven had expected to find some sort of solace or affirmation. And yet instead, the doubt and discomfort remained.