This is a story following the aftermath of the Quinncident (the Quinn Thing in the SW storyline) from Quinn's point of view. Tidbits here and here give a little taste of the future. There will be exploration of PTSD and depression. Lots of drama and angst, a bit of blood, and (believe it or not) some humor.
Malavai Quinn and Light side Jaesa Wilsaam romance.
In which Quinn is abandoned on Balmorra...
She had sent him to the place they had first met: Balmorra. Nothing changed on this planet. It smelled the same, like death and spent munitions. A heavy fog from shells and dirt hung in the air; the same. He was given the same office, in the same building, with the same desk, and the same shade of grey paint (though a bit fresher, much to his dismay). The only thing that had changed in this familiar scene was him.
He remembered when he first met the apprentice he would turn spy on. She was beautiful, skilled, strong and more than proficient with the Force. She shirked authority when it pleased her, openly testing Baras with taunting words. She let enemies live when it tickled her fancy and reveled in their confusion and hesitant “thank yous”. She was unpredictable on the field, but her connection to the Force increased at an easily calculable rate. Baras had given him the kill order during their stint on Belsavis, but he had long since perfected the algorithm needed to defeat her. When she tore through those droids in a matter of minutes, he realized his mistake: she never fought at full power unless she wanted to make a point to an enemy. And she made her point. All over his body. Several times.
When she was done brutalizing him, she laid in a course for Balmorra. He was fortunate enough to black out several times during the trip and even more so fortunate that she had been kind enough to dump him in the medical bay to suffer in silence alone.
When they arrived, she kicked his badly injured body down the ramp of her Fury. He felt his ribs shift and stab at his insides, but he was too far gone to feel pain anymore. He heard her impassioned speech echo throughout the hanger. His was the fate of any who dared cross the Emperor’s Wrath. The medics had to wait for her to finish (she did just make a speech about killing those who crossed her) and the ship to leave the hanger before they could get to him. When they reached him, they considered him a lost cause. His chest was cut open in three deep slashes, his barely beating heart visible to the world. His right arm was severed at the shoulder, hanging on by a bit of muscle. His windpipe was crushed, his pupils dilated, his skin scorched and bruised. But his hearing was intact. He had heard every word, every murmur of agreement, every gasp of fear. Slowly, his chest stopped rising and the darkness finally settled over his pained features. Sweet silence.
He came to three months later (by his calculation) floating in a Kolto tank. He was mostly whole again. His ribs no longer shifted, cortosis grafting most likely. He tried to roll his right shoulder, but it was stiff and did not yield to his controls. Severe nerve and tissue damage, nothing physical therapy couldn’t help with. After six months, he was mostly whole again, but still stranded on Balmorra.
It was déjà vu when the Wrath, closely followed by Vette, walked into his office. He tugged a bit at his collar, but remained civil. He bowed and greeted them graciously, but they remained strangely silent. Suddenly, the Wrath ignited her lightsaber and charged at him while Vette laid down suppressive fire. He rolled to a nearby desk to avoid the flying blaster bolts, but the Wrath’s lightsaber cut through the durasteel easily. He scrambled away from her. She raised her saber, ready to swing it down on him.
“This is what I should have done to you when I first met you here, Malavai,” she hissed angrily.
She brought the saber down in a cruel arc. He screamed.
“Commander?” a voice crackled from the intercom in his room. “Everything alright in there?”
He bolted upright in his bunk covered in sweat and panting. Those around him had become so used to those around them waking up screaming, that there was little shock at his condition. Shell shock, they said. Post-traumatic stress, the doctors said. Just dreams, he convinced himself.
“Commander?” the voice asked again.
“I’m fine, Ensign Trent,” he answered stiffly.
He hated this. He hated waking up soaked in sweat. He hated the concerned looks his staff gave him when they thought he wasn’t looking. He hated Balmorra. He hated his own cowardice. If he ever got his hands on Baras he would ring his fat neck, shortly before being cut to pieces, but he would die gloriously.
Major Ovech discovered him a short time later, bringing him back under his command. He settled quickly into a routine aboard Harrower class Dreadnaught. He was able to lose himself in the day to day hustle and bustle of wartime. He even began to look forward to his physical therapy. Soon, he would be back to one-hundred percent. There was one small problem. Well, not small. It was, in fact, rather large. He had panic attacks around Force users, specifically angry Sith armed with lightsabers. Ovech was rather kind about it, keeping him clear of Force users, Sith lords and Jedi prisoners alike. The next six months passed by with little incident. Then, as they were wont to do, things turned toxic.