Content Advisory: swearing, violence, death, drug use, implied torture
Note: If you're interested in Stormtrooper-centric fics, you should check out And Then There Were None by Glory-To-Our-August-King, which follows FN2187/Finn's squad in the aftermath of his desertion. It's absolutely brilliant!
One. Nine. Two. Six.
The scratched numbers were clumsy and malformed; he used his left hand. The walls within arms reach were covered in similar scrawled, four digit sets, frequently repeated, the whisper rasp of stone on concrete chipping away at the silence within the small cell as he retraced the figures with weak, jerky movements, making the lines longer, bolder. One. Nine. Two. Six.
It was important. The numbers were important. The numbers helped. Things slipped through the cracks in his head like water through a sieve. But the numbers helped him to focus. It was simple, repetitive, physical. And it made them real. It made them exist somewhere outside of his head. It was important. Important that they exist somewhere.
The soft scratching slowed, then ceased entirely as he let his hand drop to his side. His half closed eyes were clouded with fever and a trickle of blood oozed from one corner of his swollen mouth. He blinked, slowly, heavily, the numbers on the wall swimming in and out of focus. The coolness of the concrete burned against his skin, the whole room was burning, the dirty grey of the walls superheating to white. But it was a cold white. Sterile. It reminded him of the barracks room from the training facility.
On the floor, several feet away was a case which had not been there before. It had six slots, and had once held six bottles of highly dubious provenance and even higher proof. He did not wonder at its presence. Five-Oh had smuggled it in the night before.
It was Graduation Day and their entire class was confined to barracks because someone from Third had set off explosives in the middle of the quad. There was a great crater in the ground there now and just the sight of it gave them all an inordinate amount of pleasure so that they scarcely minded being stuck inside. They were all still running high on the elation and relief at having passed their final trials. They were Stormtroopers.
Despite their confinement, they managed to put the case of alcohol Five-Oh had acquired to good use. It tasted like poison and burned like a blaster bolt going down your throat, but none of them cared. They had a bottle each and they drank it as if it were water. It was a miracle none of them died, but for that night at least, they felt invincible.
They drank and swapped stories until well past Light's Out, though for once no one came by to enforce it. They talked about the Trials, their triumphs and their terrifying near defeats. Dubs gave her impression of the colonel's speech and Thirteen laughed so hard he snorted his drink and spent the next several moments doubled over in agony.
At some point during the night someone suggested sabacc. Strip sabacc since none of them had any money. Thirteen was losing as usual. He was down to his last piece of clothing when Niner offered him an alternative.
"No one wants to look at your scrawny ass, Thirteen. I have a better idea."
"A better idea," Dubs snorted. "That's what he said on that urban sim run last month."
Zero laughed. "Those are going to be Niner's last words: 'I have a better idea!"
"Nah, I mean it," Niner insisted, "We should have him do something. A dare. Something against the rules."
"Like what?"
"Fuck's sake, just deal him out," said Twenty-Six, and Thirteen cast her a grateful glance. But Niner ignored her.
"Like..." He grinned suddenly. "C'mere." He leaned over and Thirteen was obliged to do the same, only to pull back sharply at the whispered suggestion.
Niner laughed at the startled flush suffusing his friend's face. "Those are my terms."
Thirteen was drunk. He'd never have had the nerve to do it otherwise. He took a fortifying swallow and nearly choked on it. Then, before he could think better of it, before he could think at all, he leaned over and kissed Tweny-Six swiftly and awkwardly on the cheek. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back on the floor and Twenty-Six was glaring down at him, massaging her knuckles. He tried to sit up, but the room seemed to pitch to one side and he fell back.
Zero and Niner were laughing so hard no sounds were coming out. Dubs slabbed Zero on the back in a vague, drunken attempt to help him breathe while Five-Oh pushed to his feet to help Thirteen, only to collapse back, missing his chair and falling flat on his ass, drawing a crowing laugh from Twenty-Six.
Thirteen gave up trying to rise. He let his head fall back against the floor. It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help it, and he didn't want to. He didn't think he'd laughed this much or this hard in his entire eighteen years. And it wasn't just the drink, after the tension of the past few weeks they were all desperate for some kind of release. And so they drank until they could barely stand and laughed until it hurt, and then, out of nowhere, Thirteen realized he was a hair's breadth away from sobbing.
"Get up, idiot."
He looked up to see Twenty-Six standing over him, and the moment - whatever it was - passed. She took his hand and pulled him back into his chair. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his face nearly as scarlet as the trickle of blood running from his nose.
"Idiot," she repeated mildly, shaking her head.