Author's note: This is by far the most melodramatic piece of work I've ever put my pen on. YES I really meant to write this in such an over-the-top fashion, for those who would ask.
Why? Because I can.
Because I should.
For the honor of the greatest stormtrooper who ever lived.
-SV
TRAITOR
"TRAITOR!"
He did not see the sword of blue fire when it pierced his comrade's heart.
Forget the fact that he had just made short work of several of these traitorous Resistance fighters seconds before.
There was no battle raging on the forests of Takodana.
No blasterfire.
No explosions.
No life.
No death.
The First Order and the Resistance were dust motes in the wind.
All of it meaningless and ephemeral as lone atoms wandering in the vast void of interstellar space.
All of it…except him and what he had done.
So it began.
A prelude of complex electrochemical signals inside his human brain dictated the notes that would serve as the foundation of the impending concerto.
From mere pulses of cells came an interlude; one that stirred his body into overdrive. Even more adrenaline rushed through the highways of his blood vessels, forcing every cell it touched to assume battle formations anew, even as they had been during the entire fight.
His heart began to beat out a pattern; drums of war, alive and pounding in his chest, stamping out the tempo from which all the notes would fall into place.
At last, the piece written by and performed to ferocious perfection by his physical shell awoke and forced out a song from his sentient being.
That sentience, that which made FN 2199 who he was, realized that not only was he shocked.
But that he was angered.
Furious.
Enraged.
All of him finally leapt into concert to the song composed from his most basic being until he had become a veritable performance of righteous fury.
Life became art.
His lips peeled into a snarl that would make full-grown rancors squeal and run in terror.
Thus came out the refrain of his body's impromptu concerto.
A thunderous roar that rang heady and vibrant across all of space and time.
"TRAITOR!"
The man he had once called brother heard his cry
Lo and behold his once brother's eyes grow wide in shock and fear despite the dazzling sword of blue plasma he held high.
Everything then fell into place.
His betaplast shield was heavy.
His blaster unwieldly.
Gaudy. Superfluous.
Unnecessary.
Too civilized for the scum which lay in front of his burning gaze.
He let these trinkets drop down onto the forest floor.
A snapping click and buzz heralded the emergence of the only instrument he needed to conduct the rest of his symphony of rage.
It was not raining then, but a tempest was present all the same.
The crackling baton he held in his hand spun and shone and struck with the unyielding fury of gale force winds.
The thunder in his hand resonated with the thunder of his anger, his offense—his hurt— towards the treacherous fiend who made battle with him.
How could you? HOW COULD YOU?
Each time the instrument of his justice collided with that blade of blue fire sounded like lightning bolts being hurled from the heavens by gods malignant and benign.
Oh, he was such a deity then. An armored god of retribution who made song of blood and battle.
Every clash was another note to his composition. His opponent, the staff upon which he would brand his obra maestra—
But he was so much more than just an enemy…
Ah even through the thunder, the anger and the hate FN 2199's memory could not help but go back…try as he might to stop himself from doing so…
"Sloppy," their drill sergeant barked, "AGAIN!"
They had been at it for nearly an hour, FN 2199 and the once-FN 2187 duelling; electro baton and betaplast shield smashing into one another in a series of drills they had to do again and again and again until every thrust, every block, every swipe and every parry was perfect.
Just perfect.
The First Order did not tolerate anything less.
To the world outside they were just two other faceless cogs in the First Order machine. Senseless notes to a deadpan tempo in a symphony as stark and white as the armor that served to wipe away every single bit of identity from them.
Save for their serial numbers.
Numbers which for anyone else meant nothing.
Numbers which to them was everything and everyone whom they would ever know.
And so "Nines", as he was known to his squadmates continued to spar with "Eight Seven".
A furious dance, to be sure, but beneath their faceless helms both knew that their opposite was smiling through it all.
There were no words needed. Entire conversations they had through baton strikes and shield parries. Through combat stances and attack formations.
The old Republic and its successor, the Galactic Empire had bred a brotherhood of soldiers in its stormtrooper corps.
The First Order went beyond brotherhood.
They were cogs in the great machine and yet they also were the machine. Individual parts somehow representative of a great whole.
Each of them equals.
All for one, and one for all.
Those outside the stormtrooper corps would have called such a thing barbaric. Yet they knew better.
There was no word to describe it. Even love was too small to describe what transpired behind their faceless helms…
That is what it meant to be a First Order stormtrooper.
It was that wisdom—no—that bond; one so intimate, comparable to lovers on their wedding night, was what rent FN 2199's heart asunder.
We were supposed to be brothers!
The man once known as FN 2187 had shattered his very soul, burnt its bleeding pieces and then thrust them down his throat by becoming a turncoat.
BROTHERS!
His once-brother's naked skin and cobbled attire tasted like venom in his mouth.
His skin was as dark as his soul—ah, but did he even have one?
How could he? How could he so easily throw away all they had shared?
All they had been through?
Did it mean nothing at all?
Was it all lies?
These questions and more stoked the roaring fire of his anger. One borne of deepest loathing and hurt, beyond a lover scorned.
And so the god of vengeance called "Nines" struck righteously; yet for all his anger, there remained pain.
So much pain for the brother he had once loved.
Traitor…
The song he had composed was reaching its denouement; he could feel the turncoat, the man they called Finn, tiring both from his relentless assault and his using a weapon as yet alien to his experience.
Traitor!
Nines continued to roar as he lashed out. Tears streamed from his eyes, feeling like lava from supercritical fusion reactors on his cheeks.
TRAITOR!
Tears not for the one he fought, but for the memory of the brother who had so deeply, irrevocably betrayed him.
He whirled his baton towards the dark skinned man's midsection, a veritable cyclone of plasma, to force his opponent into backing away.
And Nines, divine and radiant and glorious despite his bleeding heart and soul saw the beginning of the end.
This was the death of the former FN 2187 as composed by his once brother.
A death in five acts.
One.
A downward slash that sent the scum stumbling.
Two.
An upward riposte that broke his opponent's guard.
Three.
A locking of baton and lightsaber and each warrior gazed and heard of infinities through the others' eyes…
Four.
A sharp jab from his armored fist broke the lock with the sound of a large bore slugthrower on the dark one's jaw.
FIVE!
The treacherous one still disoriented, he struck home and struck true.
His roar, the penultimate note to his grand masterwork, was long and proud.
And then the grace note—the tour de force—of his impromptu concierto came to life...
A thunderclap borne of machine and justice collided with the force of a meteor on the torso of the guilty.
The dazzling blue blade sputtered out of existence and away the double-crosser flew.
How his soul rejoiced! How it cheered and wept for the fall of that sword of blue fire!
Alleluia it screamed!
For glory!
For agony!
For righteousness!
For justice!
ALLELUIA!
And then the dark skinned man fell flat on the ground still reeling and out of breath.
The time had come. His entire body ached and each step felt like scaling a mountain.
But there would be one for whom the bell should toll…
He shed tired tears behind his armorplast visor…tears for memories long gone…
His arms hurt with the weight of the baton and the deed at hand.
But he was ready and raised his weapon high for the killing blow.
It is said that time becomes strange as one comprehends the means by which he or she would die.
That moments such as those, where every second held what amounted to the weight of all existence to some, made the most fleeting moments stretch into infinity.
FN-2199, the god of righteous retribution, the glorious, the shining, the exemplar of justice would have agreed.
Even as his hands were already bringing down his electrobaton did his visored eyes track the unstoppable quarrel enveloped in green plasma barreling through space and time towards his chest.
It was bizarre, seeing the bolt effortlessly burning through his chest armor, seeing every crack radiating from the entry wound coming into life in slow motion.
How strange it must have been then, when it finally pierced his chest and into his bounding heart.
And for the most fleeting instance of time, he glowed a phosphorescent green like the thing which had already begun to strip him of his life.
He felt nothing when the green death lifted him off his feet.
There was no agony in his physical form even while his dying body tumbled pathetically into the air from the force of the bowcaster quarrel.
No more.
No more.
There was no scream to behold the fall of the mighty god.
None wept for the tragedy of epic legend.
There was only silence; the one requiem he had.
And defiance to the bitter end.