A span of time, equivalent to four days, passed onboard the Finalizer. Finally, Ren's wounds had shown significant recovery.

Despite being instructed otherwise by the General and the nurses, that morning, Ren sat up in cold fury - and pegged his fingernails to every piece of equipment he was bound to. Violently, he yanked each individual piece off his body. Three days of consciousness amidst restricted mobility had caused his mind to plunge into an abyss of unsettling dreams. He was infuriated, noticeably, and vengeful within, although the exact reasons were not clearly delineated. Sitting up, he fisted the railing of the bed, and then attached the fist to the inner side, pushing the metal bar to the ground with a giant swing of his forearm. He swivelled his legs and placed them, one by one on the ground, and stood up. Staggering, he held on to one of the systems, using it to push himself back up. He found a coat, put it on, and started out of the medical bay. A concerned Stormtrooper interrupted him to which he insisted he did not need help, and would annihilate the trooper if he dared to go looking for any.

He paced fast enough - almost stomping, but as if he knew how to mask the sound of his footsteps - likely compensated by his slightly clumsy and inefficient gait. He slumped almost desperately against the door of the private suite wherein lay Vader's mask. Fumbling, his fingers found the password, and his weight pushed open the door. He slipped himself inside. Once the door closed behind the weight of his back, he let himself slide to a squatting position. Rested against the door, the silence of the suite finally lent clarity to his thoughts. The altar stood before him. He lifted his head. His jaded gaze reflected the cold hues of the beams filtering through the vents. He ran his hand through his hair.

He blinked slowly. Pain slowly etched upon his expression. He bowed his head.

"No." That was what he thought. The altar, on which stood his grandfather's helmet, now stood menacingly before him. There was little, if no comfort to be drawn.

"Have I failed?" He ran his hand through his hair a second time, then used both hands to hold his fringe up, over his creased forehead and brow. He was quick to admit an honest no; the girl's abilities, as witnessed by him, were by far not standard.