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Aboard Fury-class starship Starfrost

11 ATC

Malavai Quinn had his orders. He did not particularly like them, but he would follow them without question. That was what he did. That was how he gave his universe structure and balance.

He had been expecting Baras to turn on Tessa. In fact, he had recommended such a course of action to the Sith Lord himself. The girl was a liability.

She was a gifted Sith, he could not deny that. She was rather unsure of herself, but that could be attested to her youth and inexperience. The problem was, her potential had been developed too soon, cultivated improperly. And that made her a threat.

Quinn had expected Baras to turn on her. He had not expected her to survive.

Baras had hinted for some time that he was planning on opposing the Emperor. Whatever doubts Quinn might have had about that had vanished utterly when he learned that this naïve, inexperienced girl, this child, had been chosen as the Emperor's Wrath. He had observed Tessa carefully ever since entering her service, and he had quickly come to the conclusion that on her own, she would never amount to much of anything among the Sith. A certain degree of ruthlessness was required to advance within the Empire, one that she simply did not possess.

In short, she was weak.

Quinn still had to work with her for the time being, however. He stood in parade rest on the bridge, waiting for her to come speak with him. She always did.

He shifted his stance slightly as he heard her soft footfalls behind him. No, he did not like his orders, but he would follow them nonetheless.

"Captain," Tessa said softly. "I can sense your tension. Is something wrong?"

He turned to face her, letting his arms fall to his sides. He allowed some of his worry and discomfiture to show on his face.

"Quinn?" Tessa asked when he did not say anything. She'd finally stopped blushing whenever she said his name. Her interest in him had been painfully obvious, but at least it had been easily rebuffed. For once, he'd been grateful for her good nature; another woman might have forced the issue. None of that mattered now, though.

"My lord," Quinn said. "Thank you for your attention. I must officially request to be reassigned."

That caught her focus, as he had known it would. Her jade-green eyes went wide. "I had no idea...why?"

"For the sake of you and the crew," he said stiffly. "I fear I am compromised."

Tessa frowned concernedly. "If you're experiencing some sort of difficulty, I would be more than willing to assist."

"It's not that simple, my lord," Quinn murmured. He hesitated for a moment. Everything was going according to the script he had planned out. He had been able to predict Tessa's responses practically verbatim; she was so terribly easy to read. He knew what came next. He didn't want to say it, but he had to. If there was another way, he couldn’t see it. "I'm forced to admit that thoughts of you have begun to...distract me."

Tessa's lips parted in surprise, her cheeks turning pink.

"My feelings affect my ability to concentrate," Quinn continued quickly, trying to get the words out before he had more second thoughts. "I cannot in good conscience continue to serve." If only he truly had that option.

Tessa looked at the floor, then up at him, then out the viewport behind him. He could almost see the gears turning in her head. This declaration would be a dream come true for her. She had been smitten with him since Balmorra. His earlier insistence that she keep her distance could be explained away as denial of his feelings; she knew how he liked to observe the proprieties. On the other hand, she was not cruel or selfish like other Sith. She would not force him to stay against his will.

He watched her think it over.

"It will be a shame to lose you," she said slowly, her face set. "But if reassignment is truly what you want, I'll grant it."

Quinn very nearly took her up on it. But before the words could start to form on his tongue, he was stopped by the memory of Baras' voice. Get close to her, Captain. Do whatever you have to; she must come to rely on you utterly...

Do whatever you have to.

"No," he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry. He swallowed hard and continued, "I'm an idiot." An idiot for letting himself be forced into this situation. An idiot for seducing an innocent young woman who deserved better. An idiot for feeling such remorse about it.

Tessa's face brightened.

Do whatever you have to.

"Permission to kiss you, my lord?" he asked, mentally cursing.

Tessa smiled brilliantly. He didn't need the Force to feel the joy radiating from her. "You never need to ask."

Quinn steeled himself as he took a step towards her. Somehow, he forced a smile onto his face as he slipped an arm around her waist and drew her to him, then kissed her. He crushed her mouth with his own, trying to focus on the primal sensations of a soft female body in his arms and not the fact that he didn't want this, or her, or any of it...

After a few moments, he put her down. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide and almost worshipful as she stared up at him. He looked down at her face, reflecting absently that she was rather pretty. Best to focus on that, and not what he thought of her behavior and personality. He would probably have to sleep with her to cement this charade, and he would have to push past his personal feelings if he was to perform properly.

It occurred to him after a few moments that he should probably say something. He fumbled desperately for words, and said the first workable thing that popped into his head."Now, more than just duty and honor will be driving my work."

He was thoroughly taken aback when Tessa stepped forward, put her arms around him, squeezed him tightly, and then stepped away.

"You'll see," she said. "Passion will make you stronger."

"I am growing open to the idea, my lord," Quinn mumbled, looking away from her.

Her smile could have melted Hoth. "I need to go prepare for the mission," she told him. "But I'll be back."

"Very good, my lord," Quinn said, standing at attention.

Tessa chuckled softly and all but skipped off the bridge.

As soon as she left, Quinn slumped over into the pilot's chair, massaging his temples.

Do whatever it takes.

He understood quite well that it was not always possible to combat an enemy on even terms. Sometimes...underhanded...tactics were necessary in order to ensure one’s desired outcome. It was always an unpleasant business, and he tried to avoid it whenever possible. If it were up to him, he would have gladly continued to serve Tessa in a strictly professional capacity, then disposed of her at the first possible opportunity. There would be many, he knew it. She was far too trusting, especially of her allies.

Unfortunately, when he had proposed this plan to Baras, the Sith Lord had rejected it immediately. It was too risky, he had said. Quinn had to be sure that when the appropriate time came to strike, he would be close enough to Tessa to carry out the act. And now he was that close, far closer than he had ever wanted to be to her.

He shook his head. His personal feelings here were irrelevant. It was not his place to question his superior’s orders, whatever he might think of them. Any moral discomfiture on his part was a price that he was more than willing to pay to see the future of the galaxy secured. Compared to the Empire, both he and Tessa were nothing. Nothing at all.

And that is why I had misgivings about Quinn and Tessa's relationship. Also, every time I re-read this I creeped myself out more and more...

Solid reasoning, especially with respect to a LS Sith, the kind that keeps dropping -1s over small suboptimal mercies. Why should he support such a soft-hearted girl?

On Quesh, oxygen masks are a requirement. You don't have to keep full oxygen on all the time, but you need the filters at least, and in some of the pits of this light-forsaken swamp there's nothing for you to breathe except what you brought yourself.

I almost knocked Dorne over on my way into the briefing room at base; I'd been delayed going to the refresher and she was just inside the doorway when I came through. I muttered a quick apology – there was still a briefing going on, no reason to make a fuss – and I stepped well away to listen to the local contact's talk.

There was some kind of additive to the standard oxygen tanks here. Some kind of precaution; I didn't really think about it until I strapped on the mask they had provided. It seemed fine for the first few breaths.

And then it wasn't. One breath felt a little less than adequate, the next hardly felt like air at all. I felt along the tubes; they didn't seem damaged. But the next breath was almost painful. I tried undoing the mask straps and had to settle for clawing the damn thing off; my hands were shaking. "Problem," I informed Jorgan when he turned around to check what was clattering away – my mask. I struggled to take in another breath.

Dorne's attention was sharp. "An adverse reaction to something in the filters," she said quickly. "Remove your jacket, Captain, I'll ready a stim that should help." She set her pack on the nearest table and started unpacking with quick efficient movements.

I turned back to Jorgan first. I was still healthy enough to give orders and I didn't want the entire squad just standing there staring at me. "Jorgan," I gasped, "get the lay of the land here, see what you three can do." I got to undoing my jacket and rolling up one sleeve. And trying to breathe.

"Sit down, sir," Dorne was saying in her most commanding voice. The woman can snap directions with the best of 'em; she just usually doesn't do it in my direction. I perched on the edge of the table next to her kit and concentrated on breathing. In, out, sooner or later it'd feel like oxygen was actually happening. Right? Dorne already had a syringe out. She set a hand on my upper arm. "Clear?" she asked, a little softer.

"Yeah." She was always careful about sticking needles into me. Given our joint history, and my starting dislike of Imps in general and Imps laying hands on me in particular, it was a smart attitude. Not that she was really an Imp, but the precautions were habit by now.

Hell of a large gauge needle she jabbed me with. Didn't matter so long as it worked. I kept on breathing while she eased the whatever-it-was in. Don't panic. I was seeing spots, but I was staying upright…well, sitting upright…and this would clear up.

It did. Dorne hovered, watching for any sign of a bad reaction, but my throat was relaxing and my vision clearing. Good. Right. Fine. Breathe.

I stretched uncomfortably. The injection spot hurt; I winced and hoped it wouldn't get in the way. I wanted to be out there, shooting. "Sorry to be this much trouble," I said.

Dorne gave me an odd, very faintly amused look. "You can stop apologizing, sir."

"Right. Sorry. – I mean, yeah." That wince wasn't from the needle pain. I rolled down my sleeve and slid off the edge of the table. "Let's get going."

Vierce, your awkwardness practically writes itself.

Kaliyo eased her eyes open. The wad of pillow beneath her head was drool-damp and she sat up with a grimace. Stretched, winced at her popping shoulders. Glanced at the chrono: noon. Ish. Big whoop. She swung out of the stateroom’s lousy, narrow, single-occupancy bed and staggered toward the little efficiency refresher, shedding her rumpled clothes along the way. Korjonos’ separate bed was empty, the sheets tucked in nicely and military flat. She dragged his covers to the floor as she passed.

Once inside she examined her reflection. Not too bad. Eyes a bit puffy. Couple fresh bruises in awkward places but nothing that would show with clothes. And nothing that would matter without them. She grinned and stepped into the vibe-shower. She remembered Rixik from Nem’ro’s place, another bounty hunter suckup. Then she got absorbed with the much more interesting so-called ‘Red Blade.’ She didn’t expect to run into him again, least of all on a transport to Dromund Kaas of all places. She was bored, what with Korjonos absorbed in his mission reports. Rixik’s mousy little slicer associate was likewise busy.

Rixik, on the other hand, was a party of one. He drank like a fish, shared his chems stash as though it were expiring, and was a master of finding spaces the right size for two with enough wiggle room for fun. Kaliyo had a crazy idea to get high in the dining room and go at it on the buffet table. At dinner. But that was far too public for Rixik. Evading yesterday’s engineering crew searching for the source of the strange knocking in the heat exchangers was a distant second.

Good thing she hadn’t thrown in with him instead. Rixik was fun and all but he wasn’t good for much else. He wasn’t even good for making Korjonos jealous. The agent either didn’t know or didn’t care what she’d been doing. She shut off the vibe-shower and padded back into the stateroom. Retrieved her clothes from the floor and started dressing. Pants, trousers, shirt...Kaliyo paused. They were two days out of Dromund Kaas at this point. About time to start concentrating on her primary target. She tossed the shirt on the bed and pulled on the jacket alone. Plenty of time to work on Korjonos. She’d take Rixik for another ride then give him the boot.

She zipped up her jacket--most of the way at least--and punched open the stateroom door. Besides, she wanted to see the look on the Twi’lek’s face when she told him to get lost at the end of the day. That ought to be more hilarious than when the engineers found her bra on the catwalk in a crew-only, passkey-restricted area.

Kirya climbed into the taxi and set the package beside her on the seat. “Mezenti Spaceport,” she ordered the droid driver and the taxi lifted off into traffic. Looking out the windows, she patted the package lightly. Two “Clandestine Officer’s Uniforms”. Sure, they weren’t listed as Imperial uniforms, but there was no doubt in her mind that was what they were. The color scheme alone gave it away. They were probably costume knock-offs, but the price was fantastic. She couldn’t pass them up.

She hoped Akaavi would like them. Even if they were knock-offs. Kirya was never quite sure why Akaavi liked Imperial stuff or what, exactly, she did with it. All she knew was she’d disappear into the wilderness of whatever planet they were on and return a few hours later smelling of smoke and with a feral grin on her face. Suppose that was what passed for glee with Mandalorians.

Kirya glanced at the package. The pair were cut for males. Maybe she’d convince Corso to play dress-up with one of them. She bet he’d look good in any uniform. She could always re-gift it if he said no.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the galaxy...

Vette pounded on the inside of the airlock, “It was a joke! Can’t you take a joke?”

Quinn glared at her through the airlock’s glass, “Selling my best dress uniform on the GTN is not a joke. Or Pierce’s, not that it got much use.” Pierce, standing beside him, grunted noncommittally.

“Come on, you both lost fair and square. I was just having a little fun,” Vette wheedled, “You remember fun, don’t you? Before you had it surgically removed in Empire School?”

Pierce nudged Quinn, “It was Nar Shaddaa rules.”

Quinn continued glaring through the window, “She’s been utterly unmanageable since our Lord installed that blasted GTN terminal on the ship.”

“And Lord Umrahiel is rather fond of her for some reason. He’d notice if she were missing.”

Vette pounded on the seal again, “I’m sorry. I had no idea someone would buy them that fast. I put them up cheap so you wouldn’t go broke buying them back. I won’t do it again, I swear. Cross my heart,” she said, making some kind of motion out of view of the porthole.

Quinn growled. Finally he relented and released the lock, “I’ll hold you to your word, Vette.”

“Thank you. I promise, no more selling your clothes on the Galactic Trade Network,” she agreed.

“No more strip-pazaak games on the ship. Ever.” Quinn countered.

"Kaliyo."

"Yes?"

"What is this."

The Rattataki looked up from the couch. "You know exactly what that is."

Wynston, standing bare-chested in the doorway, let his hand fall. "All right. More to the point, why have all my shirts been removed and replaced with this covert armor generator?"

"It looks better on you than the other stuff does."

"Most social transactions go more smoothly when both participants are wearing the traditional amount of clothing, Kaliyo. I'm going to need my shirts back."

"You get all your best work done with them off."

"That is almost entirely inaccurate," the Chiss said, a little defensively. "When's the last time I had to strip for work?"

"The day before yesterday. Remember? Mistress Moneybags the dissident financier?"

"That doesn't count. One, I didn't actually end up disrobing, two, I wouldn't have had to, because I know for a fact you sliced into those accounts before I had so much as escalated past small talk, so really my professional distraction services weren't required past that point and anything that I did do would've counted as pure leisure, and three, I still couldn't even have gotten started if I weren't dressed like a normal person when entering the building."

Kaliyo just grinned at him. "Look, strap on the generator, you've got all the armor you could want right there. You're protected, you don't need anything else."

"I really do."

"Don't tell me you're shy about showing off, Wynce?"

Wynston rolled his eyes, more for her benefit than any sincere impulse. "Far from it, sweetheart. I am, however, required to dress to business casual or better for the day's activities."

"Boring. Let's kill their COO or whatever and get out of here."

"Not going to happen."

"Let's mug their COO for his shirt and then do the job and then get out of here?"

"That's still far from the optimal plan." He strapped the generator to his belt and flicked it on, feeling the faint uncomfortable staticky sensation of an invisible force generator all over his torso. "But, tell you what, I'll go out on the job in nothing but one of these if you do the same."

"But Wynce," she purred, "that would be indecent."

Someday he would have to break her of that nickname. "Sweetheart, isn't that half the fun?"

"I thought you didn't want me breaking the local ordinances."

True, but this one was relatively harmless and she'd probably get a kick out of it. And, he hoped, it might get her to relent. "Technically I just want you to give me my clothes back. If pushing you into a regrettable public appearance contributes to that end I'll do it."

"I see. Well, it's too bad I burned 'em."

"What?"

"Your shirts. They're gone. I incinerated them."

Truth or lie, she might go either way; here Wynston suspected truth. "You monster. I'll help myself to one of yours, then, until I can buy some new outfits. I may not be able to compete with you in the chest department but I'll manage."

"Oh, no. You don't get access to my quarters." She mimicked his voice for it. She was good at that. A waste, in a way; he liked her natural voice a lot better.

"I get access anywhere I want," he informed her, stepping backwards and turning to reach her quarters.

"Right. You just keep telling yourself that." She moved to intercept, brushed aside his first shove, and ran the deft move that would trip and tumble him if he didn't twist, quickstep, and return a swing that still fell into the "playful" force category for her. He rarely went full power when they were like this; letting her win was safer both in the short term and in the longer, know-your-potential-enemy game.

They were evenly matched in agility, nearly evenly matched in experience, close to evenly matched in strength. That just meant it took a few moments for him to pin her with her back against the corridor's wall. She went to bite his restraining arm and, with a quiet buzz, her teeth stopped short, a hair's width clear of his skin. Kaliyo gave an outraged yelp and jerked her head back.

"Fancy that," said Wynston, grinning. "Your shield generator really does do its job."

Rage flashed across Kaliyo's face for half a second before the smile returned. "Doesn't matter." She feinted a sideswipe and slammed his knee; when he grunted and staggered back she followed to shove him up against the opposite wall. When he stayed put, her expression brightened a little more.

The shield generator didn't do much against crushing force, but Wynston could ignore her painful grip. "Tell me something, Kaliyo. Of all the men whose lives you could be making hell, why did you pick me?"

"You pay the best," she said with a sly smirk. "Besides," and her silver eyes ran a long slow once-over, "you don't look bad half dressed."

"I look even better when you're not going out of your way to antagonize me."

She threw back her head and laughed a full feral laugh. "Wrong," she sang, and swept his hands aside to reach his belt and remove what little protection he still had.

Fun, as always. Material cleanup he would have to tend to after, as always. This time around, the damage wasn't bad.

Why do you make me want to go along with all the terrible ideas, Kaliyo? Why?

Also, male BT1 with the muscle definition presented in game is pretty much what the word "wiry" was made for.

Corso and Risha watched their captain pace back and forth at the trade terminal, waiting on a final bid to be placed. She bit her thumbnail, turned, and saw her crew staring.

“What? I’m just waiting on the final,” she told them, anxiety in her eyes. “You can go back to the ship if you want.”

“Okay, boss,” Risha told her, “I’ll have everything ready to go when you get there.” She turned to the Mantellian, “Don’t let her jump over the rail if she loses this,” she said in a low voice, pointing to the ring around the lower deck of Carrick Station. Miriah continued her short circuit of the area while Corso watched her.

“Darlin’, it’s only…”

“Don’t say it! Don’t even think it! This is MINE, I NEED it, I will HAVE it!” Her glare at him only intensified his worry that she might lose this bid. He moved slightly to his right to peek at the time remaining. Only one minute to go, he thought, and this can either be a great day or a very bad day. He saw that his wife had started to run her finger along the barrel of her blaster, not a good sign if she lost. They’d had to replace a terminal once, that she’d shot in anger. That had cost a pretty credit, he remembered. He walked over to her, intending to distract her, but she saw his move and turned on him.

“No, don’t, Cor. I’ll be okay, I’m not going to shoot it, it’s just an inanimate object. I might hunt down whoever outbids me though,” she grumbled. Thirty seconds to go, she thought, thirty seconds more. I hate this, this waiting. She felt more than heard the chime that signaled the end of the auction, and swiftly moved to the terminal.

“YES!” she shouted, making those at the other terminals grin at her delight. Corso put his arms around her waist, excited for her, and held her as she raised her fisted hands over her head in triumph. “Let’s go, we can pick it up on the way to the ship.”

They made their way to the auction master, Corso wondering where on the freighter they’d store that much Balmorran chocolate, but figuring his wife had a plan for that, too.

Elara Dorne is an attractive woman.

I don't have the words to describe my horror the day I realized that.

I guess the day I first saw her, for the two minutes between when I walked in the room and when I first heard her accent, I thought she was pretty, in the careless way you might think some girl passing on the street is pretty. Gold hair, nothing wrong with her shape. But that cut short as soon as I realized what she was. What I thought she was. And then she was placed under my command, and, well, there is no way any part of my brain could deal with that. I lived with her like I've lived with women ever since I started spending most nights in resistance hideouts: that is, exactly like I've lived with anybody. Except I hated her a lot more.

When a woman earns above and beyond the respect just anybody gets, all right, that's attractive. In a hands-off way that I try not to think about unless the woman in question shows interest in me first. It's just less difficult that way. Maybe I took more risks back home; I never got used enough to anybody after I left to make the first move. But someone I admire is likely to be someone I think about.

Except her, because that's awful, and I'm her CO, and things don't turn around that fast anyway, that doesn't even make sense.

Things were different since we'd talked on Balmorra. She didn't quite smile most of the time when she met my eyes, but she met my eyes a lot more often, and there was a confidence there that seemed to say our months of work so far hadn't been a waste of time after all. I hadn't done anything to earn that new confidence, it was far different from anything I ever meant to talk about with her, and…I don't even know. She was different, that's all. The gold dust on her eyelashes was back, or I'd started seeing it again, and even her quoting rules all the time was somehow kind of cute.

This was terrible.

Maybe it was my fault for thinking about her nonstop ever since I first heard her voice. Most of that was hating her and the rest was trying really hard to practice not hating her, but I guess in the end it was still a lot of thought about her. That'd have to stop.

I jumped and dropped the ammo belt I'd forgotten I was holding when she stepped into the armory. She was carrying a datapad like always. "Good afternoon, sir," she said. "If you have a moment, I need your approval on these requisitions."

"Sure." I took the pad, scanned the form on it without really reading it. Dorne always had it in order anyway; I'd come to depend on her being that organized. She thought of everything. I swiped my ID approval and handed the pad back. "We on for dinner tonight?" I asked. "With the squad."

The lighting here, I noticed, didn't nearly do her green eyes justice. Which was completely irrelevant and I had no business thinking about. "I have reading to catch up on, sir," she was saying. "I should have the time free tomorrow. I hope the rest of you enjoy yourselves."

"Yeah," I said, a little glumly. "We will."

I watched her go, and told myself that this was part and parcel of the staring into space I did for a long time after she was gone.

His original first impression was covered earlier in this very thread.

I am none too fond of Nathaniel Hawthorne, but he had an observation on the topic of close emotional attention:

"It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual life upon another; each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his subject. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow."

Kaliyo kept an eye on the spaceport and made note of new lodgers at the Poison Pit. Predictably, everyone who landed in Jiguuna sought an audience with Nem'ro. She thought the next candidate was likely and made sure Javis let him through.

"The pirate's on his way. Security droids say he's armed, but he won't be trouble." She said reading the report from her datapad and putting it away.

"Let's hope not." Karrels replied, "Here he is now."

Kaliyo turned to see the 'Red Blade' walking toward them and it took every bit of training she thought she had forgotten not to give the game away. The man's 'disguise,' costume to be more precise, was painstakingly put together to scream 'Interstellar Privateer.' The outfit was new, unstained by fighting or use, and fit well, too well, as if the entire set were tailor made. It was a Kaas City desk jockey's fantasy of what the denizens of the lawless part of the outer rim looked like. A look straight from the cover of a cheesy holo-novel, topped off by a brand new eye patch, because all pirates wore eye patches, of course.

She excused herself to tell Nemro the Red Blade was on his way, laughing as she turned her back on them. The kid was going to need a lot of help, but he pulled off wearing those red pants impressively.

This was going to be interesting.

An adaptive armor eyepatch headpiece that can be equipped at level one, worn by males and females, requiring only outsider reputation with the Contraband Resale Corp, for 2,400 credits? Imperial Requisitions was just being cost effective.

Dankin stepped out of his ship and nearly puked all over the ground. Immediately after that he realize that it probably wouldn't have affected the look of the place in the slightest. For a smuggler, it was probably odd that he had never been to Hutta before, but he'd been to Nar Shaddaa, and he'd kind of figured that would prepare him for the worst.

It hadn't. Oops.

Dankin retched, winced, and pulled his bandana up over his face. Maybe it would help block out the stench. He glanced over at Akaavi. She was wearing a set of white-and-black Republic commando armor, replacing the Mandalorian armor she'd practically ruined on Mandalore during the battle with the Dread Masters.

"We're getting me new beskar'gam, right?" Akaavi asked.

"We'll try," Dankin promised.

They were here on Hutta to take advantage of the Hutt Cartel market. He'd run a few guns to Quesh last week and the Hutts there had paid him in coins only of value at their own market. He preferred solid credits, but of course the Hutts would find a way to make the payment profit them.

"Corso, Bowdaar, please guard the ship," Dankin said. "I don't even trust the guards here."

He motioned in the direction of a pair of Gamorreans in the process of throwing a Rodian out of the spaceport. Corso nodded.

"I take your meaning, Captain," Corso said.

"Good. Risha, Guss, split up and search the market. Comm me if you find anything worth buying. Akaavi, you're with me."

"Right."

They walked into the market, and Dankin noted Akaavi tightening the neck/helmet seal on her armor. Probably sealed out the smell. Lucky, he thought.

He glanced around, looking for a vendor that might sell Mandalorian armor for Akaavi. He hit payday and walked over with Akaavi in tow.

"Hello, my good man," he said. "Got any beskar'gam?"

The merchant looked up and smiled at them. Dankin noted he had less teeth than fingers, and something about him screamed greasy and untrustworthy.

"I have a good set," he said, "as it happens."

"I want to see it," Akaavi interrupted.

He nodded and reached down under his stall. He came up with a set of white armor that did indeed look Mandalorian, with red and dark blue stripes across the chest plate.

"Unfortunately," he said, "I've got another buyer interested."

"How much?" Dankin asked.

"Three hundred twenty Cartel coins," the vendor said.

"Who is the other buyer?" he asked.

"Them."

Dankin turned around. A Mandalorian and a small woman holding a baby stood behind him. The Mandalorian had his helmet off, revealing the stubby cranial horns of a Zabrak. Anyone in the underworld for the past four years would recognize him: the Grand Champion of the Great Hunt, Dha.

"Oh," he muttered.

Akaavi glowered at Dha. "You already have beskar'gam," she said. "What could you possibly need it for?"

"My child," Dha said, motioning at the baby. "I'm going to have a blacksmith shrink it to baby size."

Akaavi sighed in sympathy. "I see."

"But you need a good set of beskar, too," Dha said.

"It's impossible to find on the Republic Trade Network," Dankin put in.

Akaavi glanced at Dankin. "Fight him for it."

"Wh-what?!"

"Fight him. The winner gets the armor."

"Fine with me," Dha said.

Dankin was about to protest when Dha's blaster swept out of its holster. Dankin slammed himself to the ground to avoid the blaster bolt and pulled out his twin pistols. He threw down an energy shield and opened fire on Dha, being careful to keep his blaster pointed away from Dha's wife and baby, who had scrambled away.

Dha jet-packed above Dankin's bolts and fired down. Blast! His shield couldn't provide for aerial cover!

A rocket shot down and slammed into the ground by Dankin's feet.

"Oof!"

Dha holstered his pistol.

"I'll take that beskar."

"Sorry," the vendor said. "I just got word from the Hutts. The armor's being taken off the market and sent to the fleet so only people who have worked for the Cartel and can pay with non-transferrable money can buy it." He grinned. "Can I interest you in a set of durasteel?"

"Let's go, Akaavi," Dankin said glumly.

"Come on, Mako," Dha agreed. "We need to leave before our daughter sees me beat up a vendor."

Elara Dorne was not in the habit of recording her personal thoughts. When everything she said and did became a matter of closely scrutinized record, she did not, contrary to popular belief, go out of her way to generate additional records.

But, in the absence of someone to talk to, sometimes she dictated to a journal file and deleted it afterwards. It was a way to settle things in her mind.

And so she opened a blank journal file late one evening after everything on the ship had been set in order. And she spoke.

"Captain Savins smiled at me today.

The cause was utterly insignificant; the effect was startling. The Captain does not smile, or at least, he doesn't do so for my...kind. It was clear from the very beginning of this assignment that the then-Lieutenant had two methods of interacting with people: one for individuals he respects, and one for people he considers tainted by the Empire. People like me. I shall never forget his face in the moment he first heard my accent. It surprises everyone, of course, but he was not merely surprised. He was furious. I have seen people determined to hate before, but rarely have I seen one so passionate about it.

In the face of that hatred, what could I do? My job. The only thing to do.

Then-Sergeant Jorgan and I have our differences, but he did attempt to shield me against the worst of the Lieutenant's ire, an effort for which I will always be grateful. The Lieutenant's efforts to rein himself in did not become obvious until much later.

I must confess it was difficult to watch the first indications of the better side of his character after I joined Havoc Squad. It's hard not to be bitter in the knowledge that one's colleague has a sense of fairness and compassion that he chooses not to extend to oneself. I was surprised, then, when he started to accept my recommendations in the field, and even started defending me against outside challenges. A working relationship is built from such small favors; I just never expected it to happen with him.

It remains to be seen whether this balance can continue. Walking on pins and needles has become standard operating procedure. But that snap to barely-restrained anger that might be triggered by everything and anything I do hasn't happened since we spoke on Balmorra. Sometimes the Captain visibly catches himself. More often he doesn't seem to have to.

Was it just a matter of asserting that I'm a human being? Whatever the case, he has expressed contrition for his prior behavior and I'm certain it's genuine; deception is foreign to him. A different person might be too proud to acknowledge having been wrong. He does acknowledge it, for the same reason he does any difficult thing: it's the right thing to do.

War has made him a harsh man, but I think that he is not altogether a bad one.

To see someone so determined, so capable, so focused on mission objectives and so firmly in favor of the strategic goal, and yet to realize he will never be the detached professional a commanding officer should be, is more than a little disorienting. Lieutenant Jorgan and M1-4X and even Specialist Vik get along with his only-halfway-formal style very well. And as I see him in social contexts with the squad, the harshness sometimes disappears entirely. I'm still not certain what to make of my recently changed status in this dynamic, but there is no doubt that my status has changed. Thus, over breakfast, some small joke and a transfiguration of a smile. He seems deeply self-conscious in stressing that I am welcome to the squad's core – a striking and almost touching contrast to the grave commander I am accustomed to – but he sometimes neglects to be nervous. For me to be included not only when he is forcing himself to act justly, but also when he is off duty and off guard, is...unexpected, to say the least. But it's a good thing.

A very good thing. By now he isn't supporting me purely out of some sense of obligation. In matters such as Captain Kalor's latest attack, or even the minor run-in with an obnoxious stranger in Bugtown, I believe I have the protection of the fierce loyalty I have seen him extend to others. I also seem to have earned the pleasantness of his voice with the hostility removed. That note or its absence in every word is the difference between a constant threat and something much nicer. Um. That isn't to say...that is, his voice is...different, that's all. I can tell I'm no longer an Imperial in his eyes.

Havoc Squad was the assignment of a lifetime for me. Lieutenant Savins was the worst thing about it. Given our history prior to Balmorra, it's absurd that I should wish I could do more for him. And yet. His early hostility didn't stem from any inherent cruelty, it stemmed from pain, and I find myself regretting that in spite of all my training I can offer no cure for that pain. Even now that he is no longer angry at me he remains deeply sensitive about the small personal confidences he lets slip now and then. When I look at how hard he tries to overcome his prejudices, not only with me but with noncombatants and potential allies, I wish there were something I could do to assist. It will take more than the sedatives that assure dreamless sleep to help him in the long run. I don't even know whether he would let himself be helped further. But from what I've seen of him interacting with his brother and those he counts as his friends, I hope he will someday. There is good in him. And warmth, and yes, even humor. It ought to have more chances to show.

I can't talk about this on my supervised visits with Aleksei. Nor with anyone, really. But for what it's worth, I find myself looking forward to my next conversation with Captain Savins. If detached professionalism is out of this particular team's range, I might not mind a friendly alternative. It would be something new in my experience in the Republic Army. It could be...very nice."

She leaned forward and hit the button to stop recording, then erase. Then she pulled up an older file. A dated log of hostile commentary, belittling statements and snide insinuations that amounted to bullying. The report that might well have gotten her removed from Havoc Squad for causing trouble, but would also have seen Captain Vierce Savins brought up for a disciplinary hearing and possibly removed him from command.

She deleted that, too.

Then Elara Dorne went out to find an excuse to talk with her commanding officer.

Why do I never think from her perspective? Vierce!verse is all…Vierce-centered. Anyway, she didn't walk into this storyline with any ideas about how Vierce might be a nice decent guy who looks after his family and all that good stuff. She had no evidence of that to start with.