He nodded. "I agree. I think I would prefer a little more variation. It's always the same, no matter what time it is." Eight-Seven didn't spend a lot of time planet-side, but he thought the idea of the rising and setting of a sun would be a nice thing to experience on a regular basis. This environment was sterile, never-changing in the stark landscape of metal, black and white and red. He regarded the woman carefully and figured she must be in a similar predicament to him. It was a nice thought - that people far above his station would have the same troubles he did. That not being able to sleep and wanting to clear your head was something that befell anyone, not just an outcast stormtrooper.
"Yes ma'am," Eight-Seven responded. "I am grateful to be in the service of the First Order. I was brought in as a child," he said. Being under the wing of the First Order and able to help defend it was something Eight-Seven was proud of, even if he struggled with his own internal issues.
When asked his designation, he straightened and hesitated for a moment. "FN-2187," Eight-Seven replied. Even if he thought revealing his designation would get him in trouble - withholding it could have the same result. And if she was out, struggling with sleep herself, he wanted to think she wouldn't want his designation just to report him. He was careful not to tell her that his fellow troopers called him Eight-Seven. Phasma discouraged names of any sort.