The training simulation was supposed to be a challenge. It was supposed to push us to our limits, to separate the efficient from the expendable. But for me, it was always a blur. Not a confusing blur, but a predictable one. The blaster fire from a flanking unit, the grenade toss from a concealed enemy, even the subtle shift in a squad leader's weight that told me he was about to give a command. My body just… reacted. It knew where to aim, when to duck, and where the enemy would be before they were even there. My drill instructor, a hulking, imposing veteran, watched me as I systematically took down every opposing unit. When the simulation ended and my score flashed green, he clapped me on the shoulder with a force that almost buckled my knees. "FN-2187," he rumbled, his voice amplified by his helmet, "you have a preternatural ability for this. You're an example to your squad." The others murmured in agreement. My squad leader, FN-2003, slapped my pauldron and grinned. "Lucky," he whispered, "you're a machine." The nickname stuck. I pretended not to care, but it was a warm feeling, being considered perfect.
My Designation was FN-2187. Most of the time, I just thought of myself as Finn. The trainers told us to discard all personal identity, to become one with the collective, but I couldn't. I was good at what they trained me for. The best, if I'm being honest. During combat simulations, the others moved with a rigid, practiced efficiency, but I saw things before they happened. A tell in an opponent's stance, a flicker of light on a hidden vantage point, the subtle change in a target's breathing. They praised my "instinct." My squad leader, FN-2003, nicknamed me "Lucky," and it stuck. I pretended I didn't care.
The truth was, it wasn't luck. It was a constant, low thrum beneath my thoughts. A hum that vibrated in my teeth when something was wrong. An invisible hand that nudged me an inch to the left, just as a plasma bolt grazed my shoulder. I'd never seen anything like it in the other troopers.
I left the training room, towel on my neck, wet from drying my sweat. Walking down the halls of the starcruiser is surprisingly peaceful; there was not much going on this side of the ship.
I arrived at my room. It was small, grey, and depressing, but at least I had my own shower, so I couldn't complain. But that was the day it all changed, as I lay on my bed and fell asleep, the hum became a shriek. I saw myself and others in a tactical briefing for a new mission, a "pacification" of a small, rebellious village on a backwater jungle moon. General Hux's voice droned on about strategy and minimal casualties, but I couldn't hear him. The holoscreen of the village flickered, and the sterile white room melted into a wall of flame. The air grew thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and ozone. I saw a child, a little girl, screaming, her face a mask of pure terror. I saw a family huddle together in a makeshift home as the roof collapsed on them.
Then, I saw myself. My white helmet staring back at me from the inferno, the polished black lens reflecting the orange light. My hands, the very hands I saw every day, held a blaster rifle. And I was aiming at the people.
The dream snapped back, but the feeling lingered. The taste of smoke in my mouth, the echo of that child's scream in my ears. The hum in my head was no longer a whisper; it was a deafening siren. My hands trembled, and I had to clench them into fists inside my gloves to stop them from shaking. I had a purpose, they had told me my entire life. My purpose was to kill. But the voice in my head, this new, powerful presence, told me my purpose was to protect.
For the rest of the day, I was a ghost. My mind was a storm of conflicting orders. My body was still, a perfect soldier, but inside, I was screaming. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was FN-2032, or "Slippery" as we called him behind his back for his habit of getting out of trouble.
"You okay, FN-2187?" he whispered. "You look like you've seen a ghost." He chuckled at his own joke, but I just stared at him. I couldn't form a response. I felt a surge of energy, a push, and I stumbled backward, bumping into another trooper. Slippery's laughter died in his throat as he looked at me, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
After the training, I went to the mess hall. I sat alone, pushing the nutrient paste around my tray. The others chattered about the glory and honor they desired to achieve.
My mind, which had always been so clear and focused, was now a frantic race against time. I started thinking, am I really on the right side? Should I leave? But how could I, where would I go? The First Order is all I've ever known in my life, but my thoughts were interrupted by the ship's VA calling my name, "FN-2187, please report to General Hoxs' office." My mind started racing, as I did not know what to expect. The walk to his office seemed like a prisoner on its way to their court hearing, everyone giving stares and whispering.