[It's the ghost of an inorganic snap in the dark: pain searing into the flesh of his shoulder, the way it tears when momentum spins him backwards on his own heel from some unregistered blow and then-- then, he chokes on his own breath in the snow, vision dulling by degrees. His spine is on fire, and his fingers won't move, and he thinks, only briefly, that he's screwed up again. Not for himself; for her.
And then it's pitch. Dull like water in his ears until he hears voices unmarred by electronic filters or the echoes of Starkiller's frigid halls. Warmer, he guesses - for as long as it lasts. Something at his side sets to beeping, there's a hand at his wrist, and he's under again.
He doesn't dream.
Not until there's a weight on his chest too heavy to shrug off. Seconds later, months maybe, there's no way to tell. Just that pressure that digs into his pores, eyelids fluttering over his blurred, useless vision. He's sweating, and he hasn't got a clue when that happened or why when the air feels thick enough to choke him, freezing cold besides. Something's wrong. He'd call it soldier's intuition if he ever proved himself to be one, but in truth (one he already actively recognizes) it's just instincts: no functioning subconscious mind ignores stimuli on that scale.
The voice that follows all, though-- it's not right. No, it's not real. Can't be real. The words are all garbled and they don't make sense as he struggles to come to, focus drifting in and out, coughing on his own spit where it catches ungracefully in his throat. It doesn't matter that he instantly recognizes polished metal over woven cloth, or the old, familiar rasp of Kylo Ren's lightsaber, fear cinching like a vice knotted somewhere deep between his ribs. It doesn't matter.] You're not real.
I'm dreaming. This is-- this is all a dream.
[Wake the hell up, Finn. Whatever this is just-- wake up.]
WOW RUDE REN the only douche here is u buddy
And then it's pitch. Dull like water in his ears until he hears voices unmarred by electronic filters or the echoes of Starkiller's frigid halls. Warmer, he guesses - for as long as it lasts. Something at his side sets to beeping, there's a hand at his wrist, and he's under again.
He doesn't dream.
Not until there's a weight on his chest too heavy to shrug off. Seconds later, months maybe, there's no way to tell. Just that pressure that digs into his pores, eyelids fluttering over his blurred, useless vision. He's sweating, and he hasn't got a clue when that happened or why when the air feels thick enough to choke him, freezing cold besides. Something's wrong. He'd call it soldier's intuition if he ever proved himself to be one, but in truth (one he already actively recognizes) it's just instincts: no functioning subconscious mind ignores stimuli on that scale.
The voice that follows all, though-- it's not right. No, it's not real. Can't be real. The words are all garbled and they don't make sense as he struggles to come to, focus drifting in and out, coughing on his own spit where it catches ungracefully in his throat. It doesn't matter that he instantly recognizes polished metal over woven cloth, or the old, familiar rasp of Kylo Ren's lightsaber, fear cinching like a vice knotted somewhere deep between his ribs. It doesn't matter.] You're not real.
I'm dreaming. This is-- this is all a dream.
[Wake the hell up, Finn. Whatever this is just-- wake up.]