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He kept his hair buzzed short. Years of training had instilled the need for practicality over all else, to be battle ready in a moment’s notice. No matter how quiet, this was still a time of war.
He hadn’t used that same pragmatism during the evacuation. Terror and defeat faded into relief with every group he rushed out, diving back in without hesitation because the Resistance cared about the whole, the good of the galaxy, the survival of hope. Then he’s trapped, barely existing for two lonely months until he stops waiting for the inevitable as it becomes clear that something else is waiting for him.
In the moment, Finn called it luck.
He’s greeted with joy and praise and questions. They’re in a whole new system but he found them without preamble. He’s been trained to give reports, written assessments about his performance in battle simulations and memorised catalogues of jargon yet Finn can’t explain it.
There’s a part of the Order rooted in him. It recoils from the possibility that a part of him is great, special even, just for being Finn, not because some outside authority made him so. How can he be without their tried and tested mould? Finn pushes it aside. He has duties to attend to. When he’s not providing intel, he’s training, learning to fly or sitting in on strategy meetings. He needs some sort of order to his days, left idle his mind can wander, sticking to the worst memories – this way he’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow.
He didn’t go looking for them, he was half-past delirium by the time he landed. He was drawn in, following the same pulse that led him to the market back on that barren wasteland, the wave that rose with the ignition of the ‘saber. He thought it seeped out of him in the snow, returned to the earth before he had ever learnt to truly direct or control it.
The connection was distorted, not severed. At least, that’s what Maz says. She came for the commemoration service, then stayed for the General.
She notes the new growth, offering some fresh wisdom to go along with it.
Finn was right to accept. Sandwiched between Maz’s leather-clad legs, her sure hands parting and plaiting his hair, he could almost let the world fall away. She is a living archive. Hours pass them by while she recounts a youth full of adventure that led to romance and ended in heartbreak but not bitterness, tells him about the Light and Dark - a battle she fully intends to see wrapped up. He doesn’t doubt her, energy thrums where her fingertips brush against him.
At first, the styles are simple, neat rows that curl up at the nape of his neck. Like this, he can see how much he’s changed.
There’s something familiar about a uniform, whether it’s the sterile, synthetic white or the bright, earthy tones issued by the Resistance. It’s one thing to walk a different base, to engage in negotiations about battle tactics instead of following orders with perfected compliance, running into battle with the unwavering certainty that this is right, not the muted fear that the squad wasn’t ready.
To mourn and celebrate the fallen rather than scorn, forget, replace and repeat.
Like this, he’s reminded of his choice whenever he catches his reflection.