DRABBLES | ocs, canon, x reader

NQ-2950 , oc , angst

oh hey poe dameron cameo

death + survivor's guilt, blood, phasma has a temper

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They call her Blast- at least when no officer is listening. She can hear her name now, hissing through the staticky comms. Between the first breath and the next, half her squad is gone.
She supposes she should scream, she should cry, she should swear revenge for the only family she has ever known being taken by those who claim to fight for peace and freedom (she never thinks of the universes cruel irony save for moments between the mess hall and the barracks).
Blast can't find anything in her, no cry or gasp or shout or whimper. Only silence, the constant way she bit her tongue, like the good soldier, the good trooper she was trained to be.
Between this breath and the next, she pulls the trigger, arc of red light sinking into the chest of another person whose face would haunt her dreams. Blast was always plagued by mute and nameless souls, in both the sleeping and waking realm.
(The one she shot had crystalline eyes that shone like a supernova.)

Blast watches her squad fall, one after the other, in a steady cadence of silent cries. She counts down, her heart full of something she can't name.
5
4
3
2

1

She can't cry, her lips are too cracked and throat too parched to even speak without bleeding.

But the problem is deeper than that. Blast doesn't know how to cry. Tears never came naturally to her, grief (the Order equated grief to weakness and Blast never knew anything else) came in the form of anger, of shards of old plastic armor across the barracks floor, digging into her feet and making them bleed. Blast was infamous for her temper.
-
Anger gave way to something different.
No one could quite name it, the vacant look in her eyes, the silence. Her wry remarks died with her squad, it seemed.
She was silent for weeks at a time.

It came to a rushing, tumultuous end one day for what seemed to be a pep rally (the Order seemed to like drilling propaganda into the minds of those who didn't care) given by Phasma (or the Disco Ball Chick, depending on who you asked and what personnel were around).
Phasma paced back and forth, managing to blind every trooper in the line up.
"-do not have weakness! There is only the Order. You do not have friends. Stormtroopers do not have family or brothers."
There was a quiet mumble from one end of the line, one that didn't go unnoticed by the Captain (or the Humanoid Death Ray). Phasma came to a halt in front of Blast.
"Do you have something to say, NQ-2950?" There was silence, thick enough to suffocate every child playing soldier beside her.
"Yeah. No friends? I never knew we were Jedi."
Phasma's reaction was instantaneous: her chrome-plated fist collided with Blast's helmet with such force that the plastic splintered, drawing scarlet swirls into her skin.
She supposes she should scream, she should cry, or fall under the force of the blow. She doesn't even flinch, as red drips steady streams across her chest plate.
"Clean yourself up in the med bay and get out of my sight," the Captain snarls, stepping closer to glare at the fragments of Blast's exposed face. "You're going to be reassigned to another installation."
Shot steps away and leaves, leaving a trail of blood behind.

She supposed she was a traitor. She didn't care. "Take me with you." His eyes narrowed (she supposed he was handsome; with a strong face and lovely brown eyes. those eyes now swirled with distrust).
"They're going to find me out and they're going to kill me." Her voice was beyond disinterested. He clutched onto the compact data core she gave him and said nothing.
"What's your name?" His question was sudden.
"NQ-29-" she cut herself off. "My-" she paused, teetering on a mental edge "-friends call- called me Blast."
A bare ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. "Blast?" (she didn't miss the softened look in his eyes, the kind that bordered on pity and made her blood boil and her heart hurt all at once. it was hard to breath suddenly.)
A quiet gasp hissed under her helmet. "I need to leave." Blast had never begged in her life, but now- "Please," her voice was barely a hiss above the static on her modulator.
He had a different look in his eyes, one she couldn't recognize (it was guilt; she had always been so stiff, so proud. he thought that what he had convinced her to do had moved her to desperation. he didn't know what it truly was: the death she'd seen. in fact, the resistance didn't know who she was at all; they only knew she was disillusioned and had a decently high clearance, and that is enough).
"Ok," he said. Blast took a shuddering breath.
"Ok."