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He received a commendation, of course, for being the one who ultimately executed the traitor.
It was the first sign that something was wrong. He should have felt pleased, proud of his service and grateful for the recognition. Instead, he felt nothing there at all, like his brain had tried to pull something up on a datapad but only given him a blank page.
And yet the moment that had brought him such accolades stuck itself in his mind, despite the lack of emotion associated with it. It crept in when he wasn’t kept busy, flashes of memory at the slightest provocation. It poured into his dreams, consuming them utterly.
An order given.
A blaster raised.
A shot fired.
A body, collapsed to the ground.
Sometimes the dreams stretched beyond that moment in either direction. The conversations prior to the order, the disposal of the body afterward. Even the commendation that had come later, as he had stood, feeling nothing as it was presented to him.
It was just memories, simple factual events. Yet he always woke from these dreams abruptly, feeling as though a scream should be tearing from his throat.
Only to be met with his own silence.