Completely unbeta-ed, written after midnight and will be one of those things I look at the next morning in complete confusion (perhaps disgust) and wonder if I had somehow gotten drunk without ingesting any alcohol. If it's to your fancy, enjoy.

He slumped against the wall, pointedly tossing the goo-filled purple ball against the wall opposite him. It was easy to ignore the splat.

154. 154. The number echoed in his mind and nothing he tried would get it out of his mind. Furious, he grabbed at his hair and pulled. 168. Dammit.

He really thought he could do it; that this would be the time.

'Face it. You can't beat my record. Try your best, I'm not worried.'

Screw that. He ignored the still piercing pain in his right hand and arm, his good hand. No injury was getting in his way, not now...

"Finn?"

And by all that rocked the skies of the Atmos, not her.

"Finn, what are you doing?"

Ignoring you. He gritted his teeth and raised his hand to grab another ball from the basket, to start the game again. He flinched when she grabbed his hand, the pain increasing to a horrible crescendo before fading to the familiar ache.

Piper filled his vision. "Finn, are you playing our bulls-eye game?"

He didn't answer. Since his throwing hand (shooting hand, eating hand, writing hand, guitar-strumming hand) was currently in the strong grip of Piper's, he couldn't ignore her by actually taking a shot. So he looked off into the distance, over her head. Funny. He was taller than her by at least a head now.

"You're injured!" said Piper, apparently horrified with his behaviour. "For Atmos' sake, Finn, you and Aerrow just got back a few hours ago! For all that we know, Stork could be right and your arm will get infected and fall off. And then you'll die." She tried to imitate Stork's perfect deadpan, but clearly believed it was just a deep cut.

Aerrow had called it gangrene. Their wounds had to take a backseat as they rushed to Terra Atmosia. Piper evidently hadn't even looked at the hand she grabbed.

"One hundred fifty four," he said aloud, still looking at that bright, beautiful horizon.

"...Excuse me?" asked Piper. The genuine concern in her voice was starting to resemble fear.

"My score now," he said roughly, glancing down to make eye contact for the first time. "It's one hundred fifty four. It's better than I've ever done before."

Piper was still looking at him as if he was a stranger, a child, an invalid, anyone other than Finn, the bright blond sharpshooter.

"It's not good enough," finished Finn, feeling as though rocks were embedded in his throat. He tried to pull his hand away, to try and hit the target they always used, but even surprised, Piper still managed to stop him.

"Finn..." she said quietly. "Is this about... the record?"

He looked down and glared as hard as he could manage. "Yes, it's about the damn record! I'm the fucking gunman on the ship, I should be the one with the top score! Not you!" To his horror, he discovered his breath was coming in short gasps and hot, raging tears had flooded his eyes. This time he managed to pull away from Piper.

He looked down at the basket of balls and let his hand drop. Screw it. It wasn't worth it.

He didn't know what to do. Taking off wouldn't work; the Condor was only so big. Piper would chase him. And yet, standing there with nothing to say was one of the most godawful experiences of his life. Right up there with crashing his Skimmer with Aerrow in the Wastelands. All he could think about was the difference between 168 and 154. She had landed on the honest truth when she had boasted those years ago.

Piper leaned in and hugged him. She smelled too clean; he wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar civilized odour.

"Come on, Finn," she said, gentleness and compassion swathed in her voice. "Let's go get your hand looked at."

Almost against his will, he leaned in and hugged her back. He bent his head so his mouth was by her ear.

"You were right." He couldn't have spoken louder than the whisper if he wanted to. Fourteen damned points.

She was a brilliant actor. She didn't flinch; if he didn't know better, he would have said she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Come on," she said instead and turned him in the direction of the medical deck.

Le finn.