The helmet wasn't the whole faced monstrosity he'd worn as a stormtrooper, but it served its purpose in battle. Stopped flying debris from knocking him out, protected his eyes, and he'd gotten one of the more technically gifted rebels to install the kinds of readouts he was used to constantly having stream in front of eyes during battle with in it. It told him the relative distance of people around him, whether they were friend or foe, among other things. And, stupidly, gave him the code name of the pilot flying each X-wing that went whistling overhead.

The helmet wasn't as big as a stormtroopers, but it still made a satisfying clang as he hurled it across the locker room into the wall. Stupid. He couldn't believe he'd been so damn stupid. He couldn't remember being so dis-coordinated in battle since Slip had-

Since the night he'd met Poe. His back hit the front of the lockers hard, another satisfyingly violent sound, and he slid down until he was sitting on the floor in his torn uniform.

He'd seen the fighter plane get shot down. Had been leading a squad in the ground assault the X-wings were covering form, and watched BLACK LEADER dive towards the horizon. Then he wasn't leading his squad anymore.

Thank the Force for intelligent rebels, or they'd have caught the grenade slung at them while Finn watched, disbelieving, as the X-wing smoked in the distance. No one had died, thankful. Not this time. But the awkward parting with his squad after the fact said everything that needed to be said.

Someone would, eventually. If he fell apart like that again.