#numcric

The numbers were always ticking, a slow steady click in his mind, ignored like a heartbeat. Tick, tick tick. 

He ignored it as always, even as the ticking began to get louder, sideways glances similarly. One day after the base was destroyed, it went off, like an alarm, startling him and causing him to stare at the small woman in front of him. 

;; I make my own damn rules.

It didn’t matter that they were in the middle of a combat scenario, swarmed with more of the enemy than they had ever dealt with before; it seemed like the entirety of the Resistance force had come out, and it still didn’t matter. Because GN-1963 had watched that same head in line ahead of her every day for years, and because she knew him in uniform and out of it, and because he had fallen.

From her shot.

She had never been ashamed of her marksmanship until today. She had never dropped her blaster on the battlefield before today, or broken rank before today, or reached down and hauled an enemy body out of harm’s way before today. Today was a day of changes. She ripped her helmet off and threw it aside, bent over FN-21–Finn’s body, and–. GN-1963 hadn’t cried before. Not for long. Not for personal reasons. She had sobbed from illness and from pain but loss…loss was new to her. And for all her bravado, GN-1963 was as weak to sentiment as anyone else. It leaked out of her eyes, hot mercy falling too late to make a difference. Her shot. Her blaster had pierced him in the end.

She cradled Finn close to her body and rested her naked forehead against his strange leather jacket, let her tears stain his jacket. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Hers wasn’t supposed to be the shot to bring him down. It was always supposed to be the other way around.