Wynston made a mental note to wake up four hours into the night, and so he did so. That was a handy little skill for the times when he didn't want an alarm disturbing his partner.

Hold still, breathe deep, run through the inventory. Fully clothed, a few dull bruises, nothing that would slow him down. Surroundings: Comfortable bed, smell of Ruth with an overlay of the sweat and grime of their rough day. Sounds: distant engine hum. Ruth's breathing a little ways away. When he moved he saw she had curled up with her back to him at the far edge of the bed.

Though a continuous vigil over her sounded cute, he had things on his mind.

He picked up his wrist console and headed to the refresher. The ship was silent but for the low hum of the engines. He slid the tiny earbud out of his console's edge and tapped it into place. Then he checked his correspondence.

He had a catch-all for the things sent to his aliases over time; that was mostly kept for archival purposes, something to set analysts on if he needed information about old temp bosses, importunate suppliers, enemies, assorted former social contacts. He skimmed the headings and names from recent entries, but nothing looked interesting, so he moved on.

Kaliyo had left three messages in the last forty-eight hours. Her first contact since their split five days ago. Wynston concentrated on keeping his breathing even and his face neutral, even if there was no one to see.

The first message consisted entirely of drunken invective. Death threats, multilingual insults, pretty much what he was used to when she was in a bad mood, only this time he had no way of appeasing her. He watched and listened for details: street clothes on the captivatingly form-fitting side of coreward Hutt space fashion, veiled references to friends who would come after him but no specific information. He considered warning Ruth's people – he had no doubt Kaliyo would follow through sooner or later – but really, Ruth's people were already on sufficient guard against strange fighters. The only other hard data from the holo was that Kaliyo was drunk and angry.

Message two was more drunken invective. She was sitting down this time. So, late in her evening. Not infrequently, when she was around, there came a point at which he would put her to bed, or at least try; she would usually argue, he would insist, she would bite him, and they would often end up in an altercation that he would attempt to drag in the direction of the door. Sometimes he won and hauled her to her own quarters. Sometimes he couldn't get the woman's teeth off him and he had to offer to bribe her with a combination of favors of her choice. If she was impaired enough she would forget that specifying said favors required giving up her death clamp on his flesh; she would open her mouth to issue demands, he would get free, and eventually he would put her to bed with a minimum of property damage. It was fun. Very bad for his skin, but it was fun. It was Kaliyo.

He shook his head and replayed the message to check for details.

Message three was timestamped mere minutes later and consisted of Kaliyo denying all interest in even bothering with revenge because, stupid karking worm that he was, he wasn't worth the effort. She proceeded to malign his appearance, career choice, intelligence, and manhood in dismissive terms before concluding that she had already completely forgotten about him and she hoped he rotted in one of those jungly parts of Dromund Kaas, you know, the parts that scared the piss out of him, so much for the bad*ss agent, he was pathetic. She offered one last eloquent string of curses, and then the message ended.

It felt very much like being with her. He shouldn't have listened. Time was running, someone would wake up and notice how long he was occupied in the refresher, and honestly, he had already known there wouldn't be anything actionable in her messages. He set his feelings aside and moved on.

There was a missive from Doctor Lokin, some short innocuous-sounding query of unknown true significance. Wynston shot back a text-only meaningless reply phrased as blandly as possible and sent the reply only after stripping sender information and obscuring the details of message routing. Withholding information from most people was just good business; while dealing with the inquisitive Lokin, Wynston raised it to a form of aggression.

Next up, an update from Keeper, and not a good one. No word of Watcher Three. Wynston had hoped to bring him into his new offshoot of Intelligence. The youth had all the right traits: smart, skilled, genuinely good-spirited, manageable. Wynston truly regretted the occasions he had had to pull the wool over his eyes. But Watcher Three had disappeared during the first wave of Sith plundering when Intelligence was broken into pieces. Keeper reported that another lead had turned up nothing. Damn it all. He was one of the good ones.

It isn't over until we have a body, he wrote back. Tell me what it takes – manpower, credits, clearances. I'll acquire it.

He had to try. He would offer something like that. Keeper would sternly remind him to stay focused. He would point out any of the dozen interesting side tidbits he had turned to advantage and/or sent her way while getting the latest mission done. She would change the subject in her most exasperated voice, moving on to issue the demands made by the hard numbers. He would negotiate with reality, as creatively as necessary, until reality gave them more acceptable numbers. They would get the job done. It had taken quite some time for this process to reach civil terms, starting as it had when she only knew him as a cheeky and intellectually inferior alien. Now she knew him as a cheeky, intellectually inferior, but effective alien. It helped.

It occurred to him that his association with Keeper now qualified as his oldest extant relationship with a woman. Not exactly his first pick for that distinction. But despite her oft-expressed distaste for him, she did work with him, and her awe-inspiring brilliance was matched only by her dedication. That made her a gem among sentients. He made a note to tell her so in person sometime; it would be good for one of her terribly charming twinges of discomfort.

Made contact with the Wrath, he added to his report. All efforts are on Baras. The situation is delicate. Will update as necessary. He sent it off, then he powered down the console and went back to bed.

Ruth had stretched out to claim most of the real estate there. She looked worried even in sleep. Still beautiful, though. Still kinder in defensive hysteria than half the people he knew were in casual conversation. Hurt and suspicious though she was, she was still instinctively sorry for doing harm. He needed that instinct, needed it to keep bringing out the warmth of her. It would be nice if she could do more than just fight with or tolerate him, too.

He leaned over her and, moving slowly so as not to startle her, touched her hair. "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?" he asked.

She snapped shut, curling up and retreating to the far edge of the bed. "Don't," she mumbled.

Ah. Of course. It had been his bright idea to throw a harsh reproof at her the previous evening. He had thought the shock might help, but it did carry a cost.

He stretched out on his edge of the bed and told himself that nothing really needed thinking about just now.

"Wait," she said softly, and reached over to take his hand. She drew it to her and kissed his wrist very lightly. Then she released him. "Sleep well," she whispered, and turned away.

Better. He would call. She would answer. Sometimes the other way around, the script here was less defined. They would win the day.

There would have to be a lot of detail work in between, but first, sleep.

Waking up at a pre-willed time? Super useful. No idea when I picked that up myself, but it's useful.

This is probably Kaliyo's last contact for…a while.

Lodestone timeline: Short Fic Thread leadup (Ruth!verse canon):

L-3: Kaliyo's personal quest blows up

L-3: Wynston calls Ruth

L-2: Wynston talks with Keeper and the Minister (in Lodestone, this occurs while Wynston has queries out for the action that kicks off his AU)

AU thread:

L: Faith, Hope and , in which Wynston catches up with Ruth

L: The dream changes

L+1: Wynston talks to the crew

L+1: Wynston sees DS Ruth in action and calls her on it

Scourge watched Coremi read, curled up at one end the couch with her feet tucked under her. When she was not training she was studying and seemed perfectly content to do nothing else. She absently traced the scar on her cheek with a fingertip, it had faded into a thin barely raised line, noticeable only if one knew it was there. Occasionally her brows would knit together in confusion and she would leaf through her notes pouting or chewing on her lower lip until she understood the text she was reading, then her face would clear the corners of her mouth curving upward in a self-congratulatory smile.

He brooded as he watched her, becoming so focused on her lips he did not notice when her eyes had turned to him. “Something on your mind, Sith?”

He stood and faced her, “I have a task for you. I am not certain you are up to it.”

She set her datapad aside and put her feet on the floor. He wondered why she was barefoot whenever possible as he watched her legs uncurl from beneath her, they peeked out from the dark robes she wore, pale, smooth, and shapely. He caught himself and turned away willing himself to focus wondering what was wrong with him.

“Members of the Dark Council are always seeking information about me, searching for weakness. Now more than ever it is imperative they find nothing. Throughout the years I have fed them falsehoods and conflicting information, but one has been stubbornly insistent on discovering the truth. Now he has a new angle with which he hopes to pry information.” He paused turning back to her, “You.”

He held up an invitation, “This is a gathering ostensibly created for young Sith to see and be seen. In reality it is an excuse for masters to send their apprentices to collect information about the plotting and interests of other Sith. Alliances are made and plans are subverted. Invitations such as this are one of the many reasons I never took an apprentice.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Why not just say no?"

"Declining is a sign of fear, a sign of weakness, if you do not show, they will all know you are my weakness." The words felt strange as they passed his lips. He stared into her eyes though she was looking elsewhere. When she glanced up at him she simply shrugged.

"So this Dark Council guy will send his toady to interrogate me at a party?”

“Something like that.” He did not like the way she never took anything seriously. “Nothing is ever as it seems, every Dark Council member will have several Lords and apprentices there, and some will send agents who belong to others. You must never let down your guard.”

“Let down my guard.” She repeated drily. “In a room full of Sith? Right. So who’s been digging for info?”

“Darth Vowrawn,” he began. “He is-”

“In charge of the Sphere of Production and Logistics, which sounds like he’s more of a domestic administrator but really he has a hand in everything especially the war effort. He is also the proud master of several not too bright apprentices including the well-meaning but entirely inept Lord Qet, the perpetrator of the hideous colossus that we can all enjoy while roaming the jungles of this fine planet. He’s a Sith pureblood and he seems really polite and cheerful, unlike some people.” She grinned at his scowl, “You didn’t think I’d agree to live here without learning the lay of the land did you?”

He glared at her but was pleased he would not have to walk her through the basics and sat back down, “You know names and perhaps faces but the connections run deeper, you must know all of them. Study this,” he handed her a datapad, “It contains the hidden associations I have been able to uncover. I will also tell you the things I want you to feed to Vowrawn’s agent. He must be the only one to whom you tell this version of our story, only then will he believe he has pried the truth from you. You will need to wear the appropriate clothing for a gathering of this kind.” He looked down at her robes, they were Sith but far plainer than anything a Sith would wear. It would be easy to mistake her for an acolyte, “We will have three days to prepare, a dress can be ordered for you in that time, and,” he paused looking down at her bare feet. “You must wear shoes.”

She frowned put her feet back on the couch and stretched out until they shoved up against his leg armor. She wriggled her toes at him and stuck out her tongue.

Ruth woke up feeling stiff. Upon moving, she figured out that this was due to the full clothing and body armor she was still wearing.

Ugh. She had lost control yesterday. Those Jedi. Those poor, stupid Jedi. Those poor, hapless…no. No, stop it. They were enemies of the Empire anyway. Nothing worth thinking about.

But perhaps she should have saved her anger for Baras and his agents. His other victims, no matter how infuriatingly stupid, were too numerous to sustain rage against; save it for Baras and his agents.

She groaned when she felt Wynston stir beside her. She also made a mental note to tell 2V to prepare Quinn's old quarters for habitation. She should've done that the second Wynston came aboard. She shouldn't have let him aboard. This was hard enough without him taking her to task for what she already knew were her failures. Seeing him both disappointed and hurt because of her was too much.

It shouldn't be too much. She shouldn't even care, not about the convenient newcomer. He should only matter to her as a security consideration.

He mattered to her.

She wanted to go back to bed.

"Good morning," Wynston said quietly.

She forced herself to turn and face him. He had his patient-neutral face on, the one with just a touch of inoffensive concern. "Hi," she said.

"How are you feeling?"

Several possible answers flickered to mind, but she couldn't think of a full sentence to complete any of them. "I'm not even going to answer that." He was already fully aware of how bad the previous day had been.

He sat up and reached for her hand. "Anything I can do?"

She snatched her hand away. Her sore muscles objected; she really shouldn't have left the armor on overnight, but it was a little late to undo that. "Stop asking that, for one thing. Go get ready. Eat. I'll refocus here and then we'll figure out the plan for the day."

"All right." He didn't move yet, though. "Anything off-limits in the mess? I was safely supervised yesterday, I don't want to go in alone now and accidentally eat something the lieutenant was saving. It'd be a very unglamorous way to die."

"What are you going on about?" She stared for a couple of seconds before softening enough to decide to answer his question. The man had a point, whether he fully knew it or not. "Vette can explain the property markings, it's a little complicated. Go on. I'll be out later."

He smiled. For a moment there wasn't even a speck of caution in it, just affectionate cheer. "Later, then."

She sprang out of bed as soon as he was gone. She stripped off the stiffer components of her outfit, stretched, and then knelt on the floor, sinking into a very unpleasant physical awareness of herself and her surroundings.

She had been charging through each day for weeks, locating, killing, trying not to think. Trying to think of everything, because that was what was needed to stay alive. Trying not to think.

And yes, she had lost control.

She got up to seal the door. Maybe she was among friends, but she had something to do before she felt right about facing them. She sealed the door, then knelt again and settled into a focus exercise her father had taught her long ago.

The meditation didn't last very long. Even if she ducked aside from her anger and let it flow past, there remained an urgency pressing her to get going. Well, a little calming was better than none. She sighed, stood, stretched, and went for a quick shower; dressed, then proceeded to the mess.

Wynston, Jaesa, and Vette were gathered around the table there. They smiled cheerfully at Ruth when she entered. In fact, the atmosphere was warmer there than it had been in quite some time.

Wynston spoke up right away. "Jaesa and I were just discussing some of the nicer parts of Alderaan. She insists anything the Oroboro nest occupies doesn't qualify as nice, but we have some human-city places in common."

"I see," said Ruth. That was very sweet and natural and Ruth was certain it wasn't what they had been talking about.

"We finished gossiping about you a good ten minutes ago," volunteered Vette.

Ah. There it was. "Anything juicy?" Ruth asked stiffly.

Wynston was glaring at Vette. It was Jaesa who spoke up. "They say you're going to be okay, master."

"The rumormonger was light on details," added Wynston.

"Oh, but I did check for safety's sake," said Vette, "and he doesn't have any plans involving Killiks this time."

"Ah," said Wynston with a theatrical touch of nervousness, "that's actually an interesting point."

Vette blinked. "It is?"

"Yes, in fact." He looked to Ruth. "If you're willing, I'd like to call in Vector Hyllus to support your bid against Baras."

"Nope," said Vette.

"His skills may be useful as you maneuver into place politically."

"Nope. Last Killik you invited ripped Ruth's guts out." (*)

"Master Hyllus isn't going to rip her guts out," said Jaesa.

"Yeah, only because somebody else got there first this time."

There was a moment of silence. Ruth didn't look at anybody until Jaesa took in a small audible breath. "I think he would really sympathize with us on this one," the apprentice said softly.

"No," said Ruth. She didn't want a bigger audience of uncertain motive. Vector was kind, but she didn't know him well, and he had a history with too many masters. "I want to minimize staff changes right now."

"I trust him implicitly," said Wynston, as if everyone didn't already know that. "But I'll defer to you."

"Yes, you will, Wynston. You'll be staying with the ship today. Jaesa, you too. Look after things."

Jaesa and Vette exchanged looks. Ruth knew they knew that when she dismissed them, she was about to do something particularly violent. Never mind that; she would try to get it right today, but Jaesa still had to stay behind. Someone needed to watch Wynston, and Wynston needed to not be watching Ruth. If she slipped up she wouldn't have him sitting in judgment on her for it. She couldn't take that.

"I won't be much use to you here," Wynston said, frowning.

"I'll get you Holonet access; I can meet with Darth Vowrawn and you can pull any information you can access about him for my review tonight. If anything happens, call me."

"Likewise," Wynston said emphatically.

She left the mess before remembering that she needed to eat. Before she could turn back, Wynston followed her out and stopped her in place.

"Ruth," he said, "if this is about last night, I didn't mean that I would try to slow you down when work has to be–"

"Just stay here. If you're on my side, do as I say. I need your data access more than anything else anyway." She sighed and tried to push aside the generalized frustration that was rising. "I'll remember. I promise."

"Watch your back out there."

That statement seemed to rank somewhere between absurd and cruel given recent weeks. "You mean that?"

"Yes. Losing you, too, would be hard even for me."

"You're not…" She stopped. She hadn't fully thought through the selfish motivations for him, the ones apart from physical safety, in their earlier discussion. Of course she wouldn't deny him this. "You're not losing me."

All the same, before she left she instructed 2V to prepare a bedroom that wasn't hers.

The justification "they were enemies of the Empire" greased the skids on Ruth's trip downhill post-Quinn. It's okay to flip out and slaughter them if it's for the Empire.

Wynston, having no reason to demonstrate his wrist console's full capabilities in front of Jaesa, accepted the console she gave him access to in the holo room. He got to work mapping and gathering certain files on the allies Ruth had today and may not have tomorrow.

Jaesa passed back and forth a few times. Finally she stopped and called Wynston's name.

He looked up. "Yes?"

"I'm going to bring Captain Quinn through in just a moment. I have to ask you not to start anything."

"Very well."

She disappeared in the direction of the cargo hold and came back only moments later with Quinn in tow.

He looked thinner than Wynston remembered. In fact, between the civilian clothes, the hollow cheeks, and the haunted eyes, he was only confirmably Quinn by process of elimination. The rigid poise hadn't changed, and he was still immaculately groomed. But there was a slave collar on that stiff neck. It was an enjoyable sight.

He didn't look Wynston's way as Jaesa escorted him across the holo room toward the refresher. On his return trip, though, he slowed and faced Wynston with eyes that spoke of desperation shaped into something fine and brilliant and deadly. "Agent Wynston," he said calmly.

Jaesa stopped. "Captain, you shouldn't talk to him."

"She's right," said Wynston. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Come on." Jaesa gestured back down towards the cargo hold and its improvised brig.

"I have something to say to you," Quinn continued, "and it would be to your benefit to hear. I assure you, I have no intention of starting trouble."

"What makes you think I won't?" said Wynston.

"The Wrath's goodwill is too precious a currency to spend on harming me. Come." He tilted his head as if inviting Wynston to a place that he owned instead of a prison cell he happened to live in.

Unfortunately he was right about the inadvisability of harming him. Curiosity prompted Wynston to follow. "Miss Jaesa, I give you my word I'll behave. You realize, Quinn, I'll be reporting anything you have to say."

"I expect no less." His gaze flicked to Jaesa. "Some privacy, if you would, Jaesa."

Jaesa accompanied them both to the cargo hold partition that served as brig anyway. She gave Wynston a startlingly hard look. "I know you mean well, just…remember, if anything happens to him, it won't be good for her."

"'Anything' won't happen," Wynston assured her. "Thank you."

She closed the door, leaving the two men alone.

Wynston crossed his arms and faced Quinn across the cramped space. "Talk."

He settled into a professional stance and spoke quickly, crisply. "I don't know what the Wrath has told you about my actions and I have no interest in hearing your impression. I betrayed her. At my former master Darth Baras's command I prepared an ambush, lured her into it, and attempted to kill her. I failed. Now I am held here, and she as before is occupied with her struggle against him."

How dutiful a recitation. "I really don't know where to start commenting on that. What's your point?"

"My point is that I still possess knowledge of value regarding Baras's methods and resources. The Wrath is not disposed toward listening; neither is her crew. It's far from my preference to deal with you, but you are in theory a professional and as such should be pragmatic enough to recognize that a tainted source is sometimes better than none."

"Hm. No, not really, I have trouble imagining how you could be better than none of anything." Wynston gestured to forestall Quinn's defense. "You say you know things? Fine. Tell me something I can use against Baras."

"I have no explicit lists of resources, names, locations. I didn't need to know those things. My familiarity is with his methods; give me what data you have and I'll give you a better prediction and recommended counterstrike than anything her staff could produce."

"I'm sorry, I thought you were talking to me because I would recognize a good idea when I heard one. You're not getting one word about what we're doing now."

"You would force the Wrath into the greatest battle of her life blind?"

"I was never the one blinding her."

"I don't have time to elaborate on how false that statement is, though I will ask you to recall how long it took you to tell her your real name. The fact is, the Wrath still stands at a disadvantage in her struggle against Darth Baras. I think even you have enough familiarity with the situation to know that she will need every available resource to win the battle ahead. I know you don't have enough familiarity with the situation to be all the resource she needs."

"So long as we're discussing resources, you seem to be talking right around the fact that you dramatically threw in your lot with the other side. It's somewhat undercutting your credibility here."

Quinn tightened his jaw. "I no longer serve him."

"Easily said. Easily gone back on once you're free. I'm not giving you a second chance to carry out your orders."

"That's not your decision," snapped Quinn. "As the first wasn't mine. I served what I believed best for the Empire. That meant Baras, in all his power, experience, and projected influence. Circumstances have since changed. The only correct thing to do going forward is to support the Wrath."

"Support her? You think anything you could possibly do, apart from dropping dead, could influence her for the better now? Your wife won't forget your effort to tear her to pieces as quickly as you seem to. Do you have any idea what you did to her?"

The officer's expression stayed frozen. "More than you could know."

"Than I could know?" Quinn wasn't the one who had seen her fighting like blood and darkness. Quinn wasn't the one who heard her begging in her sleep for a mercy Quinn's confrontation would never give. Quinn had never once asked her to dance any place that wasn't a battlefield. He had never tried to know the girl and he wasn't caught watching the fury. Wynston struggled to keep his voice level. "My understanding of the matter isn't in question."

"Quite right; it's no use questioning what isn't there. Your priorities render it singularly difficult to present an argument that will sway you."

"I'll take my priorities over yours any day."

"Of that I have no doubt. Tell me, agent, what was the first thing you did when you came here? Defeated her enemies, perhaps? Offered some intelligence of value? Presented her with some critical resource?"

"Picked off several of your master's trackers, actually." Quinn was assuming some kind of sexual pursuit; Quinn was, from a certain point of view, accurate in his guess; Quinn was going to get an alternate subset of the truth rather than having his assumption validated. "Do you think I'm less at what I do just because I don't pointlessly backstab on command?"

"I think you're less for a number of reasons, none of which are relevant to the matter at hand except to say that you categorically lack the expertise to counter Baras's agents. The rest of the crew wouldn't know where to start, Darth Vowrawn has his own agenda, the Emperor's Hand has no credibility beyond what the Wrath has earned for them…" Quinn stopped, studying Wynston's face, and developed a worrisome hybrid of smile and sneer. "…oh. You were unaware of the Emperor's Hand?"

Damn. Wynston had tried not to react. "I'm still coming up to speed. I haven't been here long."

"How can you expect to win a battle when you don't even know who's fighting it? The situation with the Hand, with Corellia, and with Baras, will not be resolved by your approval or disapproval alone, and every moment of hers you waste – which is to say every moment since you came on board – brings it all closer to disaster. Recognize your limits, for her sake. You must convince her to allow me to serve."

Wynston shoved aside his initial reactions to the weighty-sounding term Ruth hadn't mentioned. This wasn't the time to back down or get sidetracked. "I won't. She wouldn't listen even if I asked. She's too wounded to hear. In case you've forgotten why you're not allowed to serve, I'll remind you that you tried to murder her. You were good for two things in your life and those were service to the Empire and support to her. You willfully failed at both."

"I did what I had to."

"What you had to? For whom? The Empire you keep claiming to work for? What better champion does it have than her? There's no authority with legitimate cause to remove her and even grasping scum like you should have recognized that! Or, to use a line of reasoning you may find exotic but I'll try it anyway, she was your wife. She trusted you. She loved you. She saved your life time after time and – to return to your world – she granted you a greater career advantage than anyone you've ever known, for no reason more than that she thought you were worth something." He leaned in. "That was her mistake. You take advantage of your enemies' mistakes, not those of your friends, agent."

"Captain," snapped Quinn.

"'Captain' isn't the job that put you in here."

"I wasn't free to dictate friend and enemy. I obeyed my commander, which is what responsible people do. The Empire works because that authority is clear."

"And who checks authority's responsibility? You're called to kill a woman like Ruth and you just do it? You don't look for another way to accomplish the objective? Death is never a goal in itself, not for any sane mind. It's only used to further some other cause. What goal would Ruth's death have served? What lives would it save? What secrets would it safeguard? Did you even ask?"

"I grow tired of your talk. If you walk out of here too full of self-righteousness to present my case and she is defeated because of something my knowledge could have prevented, you'll be the one who voluntarily finished the job I unwillingly started."

"You're not understanding this. You are no longer relevant, Quinn. You chose your side. You did your damage. You're out. There is no way you can possibly help."

"The campaign isn't finished yet. Even if she holds to her determination that my part in it has, tell me, has 'my damage' strengthened her?"

"That doesn't help! If she uses the pain of your betrayal to finish the fight, the Wrath that wins won't be the woman you supposedly loved."

"My feelings for the Wrath are less conditional than you seem to think, agent. So long as she is victorious I shall count myself satisfied."

"Do you think that justifies what you did?"

"No. But it's something to salvage from what I was forced to do." He paused, examining Wynston's face. "You've heard my offer. If you truly desire her victory, you'll take it."

Take his knowledge? Wynston recalled that had failed his interrogation examination during field agent training. More than once. The program's solution was to continue assigning him subjects with less and less visible cause and more and more personal similarity to himself, pressing him to properly 'break' a subject. Once he realized he couldn't just fail his way out of the lessons, he steeled himself and pulled the next subject to textbook-perfect figurative pieces, extracting exactly what his supervisors wanted to hear, and then got out of there. It was one of the matters he wasn't going to replicate when he put his own agency together.

That was over a decade ago. He wasn't proud of it. He didn't like thinking about it. He certainly didn't like repeating the techniques; the payoff had to be tremendous for him to consider it. Nevertheless, he had logged more training hours in torture than most agents of Imperial Intelligence ever did.

If Wynston were in the habit of offering specific personal anecdotes he would have offered that one. Instead he just said "If I thought you knew anything of value I would already have taken it from you, and not by asking nicely. Ruth tries to protect you, but she's too good a person to even imagine all the things she would have to forbid before I ran out of ways to hurt you."

"You were never the one who could hurt me." Quinn's mouth sneered, but his eyes were empty. "I do hope she succeeds. I hope that when your operation ends and you have no further use for her, your disappearance from her side will cause her less distress than mine did." An indefinable something cast a shadow over his face. "I have not forgotten that the closest she ever came to defeat was in one of your operations based on your faulty intelligence. If you are all the servant she is to have, you had better start living up to your own opinion of yourself. Do not fail her again."

"I never failed her. On the occasion you mention, I was fighting on her side." Wynston stepped back to the doorway. "I'll mention our talk and make my recommendation. And she'll earn her victory, regardless of what happens to you or me. Good day, agent."

Difficult like roughly 12 rewrites difficult.

How many people do know about the Emperor's little cultist club, anyway? How much access does Imperial intelligence have to matters surrounding the Wrath and the Hand?

I remain profoundly unsatisfied with the about-face Quinn offers in game. Maybe his will to continue fighting the Warrior is just broken after one wrenching attempt and demoralizing failure. But yeah, I wouldn't believe that if he told me.

How does this Quinn/Wyn confrontation change from iterations in other times and places and other settings? Right now Quinn has definite, specific ways he can assist; he genuinely believes Ruth is in serious danger of failure, for she hasn't finished proving herself; and he hasn't had time to scab over, much less form protective scar tissue, around what happened between them. Meanwhile Wynston's got the rare direct juxtaposition of observing angry!Ruth near Quinn. So, um, anger.

This is one of those occasions where he gets more than irritable, then fixes the problem.

Oh, and by the way, Wynston, having met Ruth on Dromund Kaas, didn't tell her his real name until after Act 1 had ended for both of them.

“No.” Coremi crossed her arms looking at the clothing displayed for her. The tailor was to take her measurements so the garments would fit exactly but she would not go anywhere wearing clothes like that. Skimpier than a dancer’s outfit, the separate pieces of the so called dress revealed everything and offered no protection.

“It is the height of fashion I assure you.” The little man looked down his nose at her. While he was Force-blind, he was also the premier tailor in all of Kaas City and there would be severe consequences for killing him. Sith took their fashion very seriously.

She clenched her jaw, “Bring me something else.”

He gave her a superior smile, “I’m afraid I can’t, your master ordered this for you.”

She gave him a look of shocked disbelief and snatched the garment from him. She stormed into Scourge’s room without knocking and threw the offending top at him.

“What kind of sick joke is that?”

He raised a browridge at her as he inspected the top and handed it back. “You may not be used to fine clothing but it is expected that you would have to wear something like that under your dress.”

“That’s not an undergarment,” she snarled, “It IS the dress or the top of it and trust me the bottom covers even less, and that clown masquerading as a tailor says YOU ordered it.”

“I did not order this.” He said slowly, he paid little attention to fashion and even less to women's fashion.

“What exactly did you order?” She held up the skimpy piece, he could see that it would have left her midriff bare and was primarily constructed to lift and display, not cover. He tried not to imagine her wearing it.

“I asked for something elegant.”

Sorry! I couldn't help it. Also, just because most of their lives are Awful-McSerious-Stuff doesn't mean they can't have funny moments right?

Corso and Rixik shuffled forward another step in the interminable queue. “Why do we get stuck with this again?” Corso asked, “You took care of it on Tatooine.”

“Because I lost at wrestling,” Rixik said, rechecking Sirocco’s requirements on the datapad.

Corso swallowed, “Wrestling?” he squeaked.

Rixik chuckled, “Oh, relax. Kirya was making admiring noises over the scenery on approach. I told her to have fun and let me handle refueling and customs.”

“Oh,” Corso said, relieved, “Not a fan of mountains and snow, then.”

“Snow’s cold,” Rixik answered, “Had more than enough of snow when I was a kid.”

“It reminds me a little of the Ord Mantell high country,” Corso said. The line moved forward another minute step. “Not that I ever went there. Farm never really allowed for a vacation—“

A young Human male blustered in, done up in the latest loud coreward fashion. His casual-messy, chemically-lightened hair clashed with his typical Alderaanian skin. He bypassed the queue and stepped up to the customs desk.

“Hey,” Rixik barked, “There’s a line.”

The young man turned slowly, “I don’t stand in lines,” he sneered, “My father is Baron Chaptal. Our ancestral lands encompass the very base of Mount Chaptalay,” He looked down his nose at the entire plebeian queue, “Who are you?”

“The guy with a blaster who’s next in line, sleemo,” Rixik growled.

“Oo, Huttese, I’m scared,” snobby said with a yawn, “One session with my hair stylist costs more than you see in a year—“

“Yeah? So how come you don’t you have a pilot or servant or someone to take care of refueling?” Rixik asked. “Did you blow your whole allowance at the beauty parlor?” Snickers from up and down the line. The starport agent whispered into a small audio pickup pinned to her collar.

Chem-hair blushed, his color going almost purple. “I won’t stand for this treatment!” he snarled. But he was well outnumbered. The collective rumbled at him to go to the back like everyone else.

The agent engaged her local intercom, “Sir, I must ask you to please take your place at the rear of the queue. Thank you,” she said, final word on the issue.

“I’ll file a complaint,” he threatened, “I’ll have your job.”

“Complaint forms are available through the local spaceport holonet connection, sir,” she said, “You are welcome to file a complaint. Do be advised that the spaceport has security cameras in place and footage of the incident will be consulted in connection with your complaint. In the meantime, please proceed to the rear of the queue.”

Chem-hair went an even more industrial shade of embarrassed. A glance at the spacers waiting in the line, however, suggested he wouldn’t make the front without getting mussed. Or worse. He deflated and scuffled to the rear of the line. Muttering and some quiet applause followed him.

“This is going to be a fun planet,” Rixik grumbled.

Corso laughed as the spaceport agent waved them forward, “That was hilarious. The nerve of that guy.”

Rixik just shrugged, “He knew he couldn’t bypass the line. I just called his bluff.”

“Still hilarious,” Corso said.

A second Human male strode into the area, this one decked out in a silvered replica racing-swoop pilot’s outfit and matching ostentatious helmet. He paused beside Chem-hair, “You’re queueing, Pirco?” he asked.

Rixik elbowed Corso, “Your turn,” he whispered.

AU in which Ukaita, a Chiss Sith, lives a smashed up sw/jk life. She has joined forces with the Emperor's Wrath, Lord Scourge, who has had a vision of her stopping the Emperor from destroying all life in the galaxy, which explains why he puts up with her antics (well, that and lust. Lust explains a lot too). They have also managed to acquire a prototype battle droid from questionable sources *cough* greedy nephew of Republic inventor *cough* and with a few small changes to his programming, are well on their way to Defeating the Emperor! Dun dun dun!

It was time. Ukaita and Scourge gathered their forces to plan the daring attack against the ancient Dark power of the Emperor and save all life in the galaxy.

"Why are there no snacks?" Ukaita flopped into one of the Fury's conference room chairs and propped her feet up on the table, exposing an exceptional amount of thigh, "I'm hungry." Scourge raised an eyebrow from where he stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back at the head of the table. "And why are you standing like that? Parade rest? Really? It's the ship isn't it? It's infecting you."

"Try to be serious, for once," he growled.

"2V! Food!" she yelled.

"I was just asking myself what I could do to serve you better, master." The happy droid's voice echoed faintly through the ship.

"Sir! I stand ready for battle! Those Republic scum will never escape the sure injustice of the Empire!"

"Glad to hear it, Max," Ukaita said cheerfully to the enthusiastic battle droid shifting back and forth in the corner. "Is Max going to be okay going up against the Emperor?" she loudly whispered to Scourge.

"You named him?"

"Sure, you can see an M and an X through that crappy paint job there. I like Max. I'm a little worried though. This might be traumatic for him."

Scourge sighed, "His programming is sufficient. He will obey your commands."

"These chips are awesome," Vette said, carrying a half-empty bowl into the room.

"Hey! Gimme that!" Ukaita grabbed the bowl.

"Meanie!"

"You almost ate it all!"

Scourge braced his fists against the table. "Ukaita! Focus! This all depends on you!"

"So, this vision of yours, I'm all bada** and stuff, right?"

"All I know is you will defeat the Emperor."

"Really? That's it," she sat up and grabbed another handful of chips, "No details, no slicing off his head or anything?"

"I will fly you to the temple but you must face him alone. No one else can resist his direct influence."

"For a prophet of doom, you're pretty unhelpful," Ukaita said, popping another chip in her mouth.

***

The ancient temple loomed out of the darkness, roped with the vines of Dromund Kaas's jungles, soaked in Dark side energy.

Ukaita examined the structure with a critical eye. "When I'm Empress, my center of Dark side power is not going to be a creepy temple out in the jungle. I'm thinking dance club. Strobe lights. Bubbles."

"Oooh, I like bubbles!" Vette said, peering around her, "Much better than this. Have I mentioned I have a fear of dying in ancient ruins?"

"You robbed tombs," Ukaita pointed out, picking her away around a cluster of possessed slaves, "that doesn't make any sense."

"It makes perfect sense! My death-by-ancient-ruin was likely, so it makes sense to fear it!"

Ukaita cocked her head, "Good point."

Scourge shook his head as the group made its way into the gaping maw of darkness. Ukaita stepped inside and shrieked in panic.

Scourge drew his lightsaber, looking around for enemies. "What attacked you?" he demanded.

"Cobweb! In my hair! Get it out, get it out!"

He stomped forward, muttering. "...useless visions...all going to die...."

"What was that Scourge?"

"Nothing."

***

Deeper into the bastion of power they ventured, until they reached the entry to the Emperor's sanctum.

Scourge pulled Ukaita to the side. "You must go on alone, but know that the lives of all are in your hands. Please, for once in your life, take this seriously."

"Don't worry," she said with a cheeky grin, "I got this. Kiss for luck?" She stood on tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Ukaita...."

"I'll be careful," she whispered, looking up at him. He pulled her in tight and kissed her as if it might be their last because, well, it could be.

"Still the best kisser I've run across," she said with a grin, giving him another smacking kiss and then letting go. She winked at Vette and Scourge and then disappeared into the darkness, Max clanking along behind her.

The room was large, dark, lit with blue flames. On a high throne, a man sat, his skin pale blue and wrinkled, his eyes red and blazing. He rose and spoke to her: "The circle closes. The end begins. My life spans millenia. Legions have risen to test me."

Ukaita grimaced. "Age hasn't been kind to you, that's for sure."

"You are a blind insect. Contemplating the void of space. My ascendance is inevitable. A day, a year, a millenia, it matters not, I hold the patience of stone and the will of stars. Your striving is insignificant. Let your death be the same."

"Sir? Perhaps there is some mistake. That is our glorious Emperor, the bastion of all that is evil and enslaved in the galaxy!"

"And we're going to kill him, Max," Ukaita muttered to the droid.

"Sir! This is trenchery!"

"It has to be done, Max," Ukaita said, "Damn it, I told Scourge this was going to be traumatic for you." She reached over and patted the droid. "It'll be okay."

The droid's shoulders drooped. "To be used this way against the glorious leader of my beloved Empire shames me. Oh I wish I had never been activated."

"Max! There will be time for moping later!"

"Your will is mine." The Emperor reached out towards her, his teeth bared, eyes blazing, his will bearing down upon her own.

"Ugh!" she groaned, rolling her eyes, "Aren't you done blabbing yet??"

The Emperor blinked and pulled back a moment, looked at his hands. Ukaita leapt at the Emperor, and he split and became many. Cloned images fought her, dozens of them battling away at her defenses.

She slashed and hacked, spun and twirled. "Eesh, and I thought one of you was ugly."

"This is so embarrasing," Max's anguished comments continued as he focused the full power of his turrets on the Emperor, obliterating copies left and right.

"You're doing great, Max!" Ukaita continued to pound away until, at last, driven back, the Emperor fell and then struggled to his feet. "You harness immense power but you lack the purity of will to direct it. I will not be contained. I cannot be redeemed."

Ukaita rolled her eyes. "Redeemed? What fool tried that nonsense?" She raised her lightsaber and slashed, slicing him in half across the torso. "What? You didn't expect me to crush you with part of the ceiling did you?" she said to the two pieces of corpse.

"That's right," she said as she sheathed the lightsaber and sauntered out of the room, "Bada**." She looked up as the temple began to rumble and pieces of stone began to fall from the ceiling. "Oh sh*t!" And she ran, the depressed droid right behind her.

Poor M1-4X...er Max...poor Max, lol.

I hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I don't think I've giggled so much at my own writing in quite some time

Lodestone timeline: Short Fic Thread leadup (Ruth!verse canon):

L-3: Kaliyo's personal quest blows up

L-3: Wynston calls Ruth

L-2: Wynston talks with Keeper and the Minister (in Lodestone, this occurs while Wynston has queries out for the action that kicks off his AU)

AU thread:

L: Faith, Hope and , in which Wynston catches up with Ruth

L: The dream changes

L+1: Wynston talks to the crew

L+1: Wynston sees DS Ruth in action and calls her on it

L+2: Ruth leaves Wynston behind

L+2: Quinn proposes something to Wynston

Jaesa stood up hurriedly when Wynston returned from Quinn's cell. "What happened?" she asked.

"We talked," Wynston said shortly. "He wanted the chance to make himself useful again. Useful to whom remains unclear. I'll talk it over with Ruth when she gets back."

"I see."

Wynston settled back at the console he had been allowed access to; Jaesa seated herself opposite him. "One thing did become clear," he said, "and that's that I don't have the information I need to effectively support Ruth here. So long as I have you today I'm hoping you can help provide the background that'll allow me to focus my efforts appropriately. "

She pressed her lips together for a moment. "I'd like to, Wynston, but Ruth's said that she's told you what she wants you to know."

"Jaesa, she gave me about twelve words' briefing before going in to fight yesterday and next to nothing before or since."

"Then that's what she wants you to know," she said apologetically. "I'm not going behind her back."

"I can't very well use my resources to contribute intelligence if I don't even know what intelligence base I'm contributing to." That was entirely false but it sounded plausible, so she might go for it.

Jaesa tilted her head. "Question for you first."

"All right," he said cautiously.

"How did you meet Ruth?"

Of all the…he reminded himself to be patient. "Has she never told you this?" he said with an air of mild surprise. "We worked together on Dromund Kaas."

She raised her eyebrows. "That's it?"

"I'm not eager to 'go behind her back' to discuss personal matters that are as much hers as mine," he said gently.

"I'm trying to understand you," she said steadily. "Vette says you and Ruth were involved."

"Yes, for a time. It ended amicably." He didn't have time to keep this up. "Question for you. What is the Emperor's Hand?"

"I can't. Please, just track what she asks you to."

"I understand your caution. But this is one matter where I need you to trust me. If I were here for harm I would already have been briefed on this background, but I'm not and I haven't."

She shook her head. "You don't understand. I believe you, but going against her orders right now is dangerous."

"Not knowing how to resolve the situation because I don't know what the situation is is dangerous."

"It's already touch and go. She won't let Vette and me in half the time. If she finds out we ignored her orders…"

"I'll handle it."

"You didn't see what she did to Quinn."

"What she…what does it matter?" Wynston very much wished he had seen it, but that was beside the point. "He earned it. She's hardly going to copy that on you." Jaesa stayed quiet. He felt a sudden chill. "She hasn't hurt the rest of you. Has she?"

"We haven't given her the excuse." She shifted uneasily. "Question for you. If she got mad at you for stepping out of line, do you really think you could stop her?"

"I have to try. I've risked life and limb for less worthy ends before. Question for you. Please. Tell me about the others who are claiming to be our friends."

She talked. Finally. What she said was of a piece with the strange Voice of the Emperor matter he had helped Ruth with on Voss; this stuff about the Hand added a lot while illuminating little. He didn't like the Voice then and he didn't like the Hand now. Ruth had trusted their direction even before the disaster, but high-level Sith were high-level Sith, and hidden ones were guaranteed trouble.

"They're evil outright," Jaesa finished, shuddering. She leaned forward to cradle her head in her hands. "Even when I see it I can't stop her from getting involved with it. What good is my power if I can't use it to change anything?"

"Jaesa." This distress wasn't just about the Hand. "You've been there for her. That's more than any Force power or anything else you could contribute."

"I'm supposed to contribute more than just being here."

He got to the point. "It wasn't your fault."

"Isn't it? My power should have detected something wrong months ago. I was the only one who could do that and I failed."

Wynston was half inclined to agree, but it was too late now. A morale boost for her would be of far more use than recriminations. "Quinn never gave any of you any reason to distrust him."

"I looked. Once, early. He was never light, but he was pure in what he was. Ruth said it was enough. She said with her directing him it'd come out good in the end. I shouldn't have taken her word for it. Maybe, maybe my power didn't work. Maybe he was shielded somehow. Or maybe I just didn't read it right and that's how I let it happen."

"It's not your fault. That was a plan laid out before you ever came here, driven by a malice that nothing in the world you came from could have prepared you for." He leaned forward and waited for her to look up at him. "All we can do now is press on. End the threat. And let her know that trust is still worth it, and she is still loved." He tried a small smile. "She relies on you, even now."

"I try." She returned the smile, weakly. "You know, I'm glad you're here to help. But I'm a little surprised, you've been a lot less…intense…most times I've talked to you."

"Most times you've talked to me I wasn't depending on you to help me do something this important."

Just then the main holo beeped. Jaesa threw Wynston a troubled look, then flitted over to open a receive-only line.

It was a masked Sith standing over two bound, kneeling prisoners, one in an Imperial trooper's uniform, the other in street clothes.

"The Voice sends his regards," rasped the Sith, "and requests an update on how your mission of protection is going."

He drew his saber, struck twice, and the prisoners fell.

The holo cut out.

"She's been getting those," Jaesa said quietly. "They'll just call in, execute random people, and leave. He's only doing it to hurt her."

"I see."

"She's had us recording them. She insists on watching them all, even when it drives her crazy."

"Erase this one."

Jaesa shook her head. "There's been at least one a day since we came here. She'll know what you're doing if somehow mysteriously none came in."

Wynston nodded reluctantly. "Save it, then. But nothing else comes through." He looked back down at his console. "I should get to work now."

Jaesa peered alternately at him and his console screen. "More files?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Earlier this morning I gathered all the information I can access on Darth Vowrawn and his people. I'll step Ruth through it tonight. Right now I'm hoping to set up monitoring on certain comm channels, issue some inquiries in certain specialized circles. I want to know who's watching the Wrath and what they intend to do about it."

"I see." She edged around to get a better look. "You do this a lot?"

"Honestly? No. There are individuals in the agency who are specifically selected, trained, and in some cases bred to analyze data streams like this. But I can't demand their time right now."

"Did Intelligence send you here?"

Did this surprise her? "I requested the assignment," he said; it was pretty close to true. "When I heard she was in trouble I had to come. And they recognize the importance of the Wrath, so they approved it."

He wished he could go out. Social engineering, not slicing, was his specialty. But he had orders to stay here, so he did what he could. A throwaway identifile got him into some basic military comms. Some clearances he had arranged while tracking Ruth down via Baras's Intelligence resources were activated once more to take chatter there. One of the dataspikes Kaliyo had left behind was directed toward cracking the outer circle of a CorSec info feed. Little by little he opened up datafeeds and attempted to set basic monitors to flag items of interest. He wished he did have a Watcher on hand; this was really the sort of thing they were good at.

Alternately, someone else. "I wish Ruth were here," he told Jaesa. "She'd be better than I am at writing something to ID worthwhile pieces of chatter. She used to do some slicing in her spare time, I don't know whether she keeps that up."

"She does, at least until recently. We haven't really had spare time."

He nodded. "And, there. First-pass monitoring in place."

"What happens now?"

"I'm staying right here; the automatic system won't be enough. Now I watch and listen."

"Can I help?"

Sweet young woman. Exactly the kind he wanted to make sure Ruth could call upon. He moved aside a little and gestured for her to settle next to him. "Let's get to work."

Rixik leaned against the wall outside one of the Dealer’s Den private rooms. Finally, the door opened and a tittering middle-aged Human female emerged. She tottered out on high heels, more than a little drunk and poured into a burnished shimmersilk dress that would have been slinky on a woman half her age. The smoky red color made Rixik think of low-grade spice. She turned and whispered something through the half-open door. Dac darkpearl buttons traced the curve of her spine. One of them was missing. Rixik rolled his eyes. He couldn’t catch her words, but he heard Pollaran’s answering chuckle.

As she wove away, back into the anonymity of the cantina proper, Darmas remained at the door. His eyes met Rixik’s, “I was wondering when I’d meet you. Do come in.”

“I don’t have an appointment,” Rixik said.

“Oh, I have time for a visit in my busy schedule,” Darmas said. He waved Rixik into the dimly-lit room, “Please.”

Rixik levered off the wall and entered Darmas’ lair. There it was, the familiar rush. The Game. He could feel the little shiver in his heart as its beat ratcheted up a gear. Stars, he missed this. Be polite, Kirya insisted, Corso knows him and he is helping us. He’d be polite. Polite went far. Blasters were for when polite cratered.

“Lights,” Darmas said. The lights came up to a more comfortable, businesslike level. He proffered a seat on the nyreskin couch and headed for a well-stocked liquor cabinet. “I do so enjoy meeting my lady friends’ associates. Drink? You favor Corellian whisky, correct?”

“Whyren’s reserve, if you have it,” Rixik replied. Echuta. Pollaran knew his favorite drink and let him know he knew. Showoff bastard. What else did he know?

“Of course.” Darmas returned with matching heavy faceted tumblers of his requested beverage. No ice. He handed one to Rixik. “Or perhaps you prefer spice? I have several varieties on hand. You’ve done well by spice in the past.”

“Whyren’s is prime,” Rixik said, taking the glass. He caught a brief whiff of the familiar liquor. Pollaran had been sniffing in his identity record. No surprise there, he dealt information. He didn’t like how much information Pollaran was giving away for free. “You know, most people ask for my name when they get me a drink,” he said.

Darmas took a seat opposite, “I think we can dispense with formal introductions, Jesp Rixik. You already know who I am. It’s obvious I know who you are. Anything more would be redundant.”

Rixik sipped his whisky, “So what’s your game, then, Pollaran?”

Darmas leaned back on the sofa, “I might ask you the same question.” Rixik’s only answer was a raised eyebrow. “Come now, up until several years ago you were a small-time hood. A little grift, spice, slaves, anything not nailed down and more than a few things that were. Barely on the cartel’s radar. Then you just drop off,” Darmas swirled his glass, “Don’t tell me you found true love.”

Rixik’s heart skipped a beat. He was not giving Pollaran that kind of ammunition, “There’s illegal, then there’s shady. Shady’s less likely to leave me breathing vacuum.”

“Ah. A realist,” Darmas said. He inhaled the drink’s bouquet, but did not sip.

“Something like that,” Rixik said, “So why are you helping Kirya?”

“It could be because I find this Skavak an insufferable boor,” Darmas said, “Or it could be because she is a very lovely member of a lovely species. I do have a weakness for damsels in distress.”

Rixik shifted on the nyreskin cushion, “I should be more specific. Why are you helping us for free?”

Darmas gave him a very satisfied expression, “How do you know your wife hasn’t already settled the bill?”

Ah, so that’s his angle. Pollaran’s trying to figure out his relationship with Kirya. Love wasn’t denied, but wasn’t confirmed either, so let’s check possessiveness. The jealous husband. Pollaran probably saw a lot of those. Yes, he could be the jealous husband, and keep Pollaran on the hook. Rixik’s eyes went narrow, “I trust we are speaking hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically,” Darmas agreed, “of course.”

Just enough hesitation. If he were the jealous type, it would drive him up the wall. Rixik leaned forward, “Because I don’t think you’d let her clean your chrono at sabacc too.”

Darmas smiled, one of those poodoo-eating grins, “Perhaps she’s just that good,” he said.

Rixik glowered, “She isn’t good enough at sabaac to be much of a challenge for someone with a fat Hutt’s handful of senators in hock at the tables.” It was his turn to let Pollaran know he’d been looking around.

Darmas rolled his shoulders, letting Rixik glimpse a holdout blaster in a concealed holster, “I hope you aren’t suggesting I cheat.”

“Of course not, Pollaran,” Rixik said. Needling Pollaran back at a known sore spot was fair. “I think you threw the game to make her feel good. Make sure she came back. Near as I can tell, we’re a net loss for you.” Rixik considered taking another drink, then thought better of it. Pollaran hadn’t touched his, and that made Rixik suspicious.

“Some things aren’t measured in credits, my friend,” Darmas said, “Skavak is a pimple on the shining face of the Republic. I have no trouble aiding someone willing to remove that pimple,” he grinned again, that same poodoo-eating grin, “payable perhaps in favors or services to be rendered later.”

Rixik set his unfinished drink on the expensive glass-topped table, “Keep your hands off my wife, Pollaran,” he growled, standing. Guaranteeing that Pollaran would continue to pursue Kirya. The flirting game was the only one Kirya actually liked playing.

“She is a free woman, is she not?” Pollaran asked, standing as well.

Rixik leaned across the table into Pollaran’s face, “She’s my wife,” he backed off, “don’t forget that.”

“Of course not, my friend,” Darmas said, completely unflustered, “do see yourself out. I have another appointment.”

Rixik stalked out, letting the door slide closed behind him. Who the hell was Pollaran really working for? He didn’t feel like Hutts. His demeanor was all wrong. Exchange, maybe? Black Sun? Someone else? Rixik was breathing rarefied air here. Darmas Pollaran was way above Rixik's league.

Rixik went to find the refresher and hack up the whisky, in case Pollaran planted poisons or nano-trackers or something worse.

I still continue to believe Jaesa's "power" was a mistake in terms of story. It's so huge that it's weird when things get missed - her old master first of all, then Quinn. It just doesn't make sense, and I haven't yet seen any clear explanations of why it's hit or miss. It's good to see her struggling with it too.

The route to the rendezvous point with Vowrawn's people was as tense as Ruth had come to expect from Corellia: patrols of Imperial and questionably loyal CorSec forces, more than a few Sith with their own retinues. Some recognized Ruth and deferred to her. Some haughtily ignored the whole party.

Enemies, many or all of them, one way or another. She didn't pick fights, though. It would only be a waste.

The next mission: Locating an ancient Entity of vague description. Darth Vowrawn said Baras had trapped her some time ago and used her Dark Side power and visions for his own ends. Her exact location was still a mystery. That meant going back into the chaos for field work.

It was getting late, and no leads from friend or foe, when the Republic unit waylaid them in a broad valley of rubble where a road had once been. In the opening bedlam of blasters she had little thought but to close to the nearest target and get going; once things were under way she realized she was up against a sizeable team.

Her people had gotten accustomed to fighting as a five-person squad: herself, Vette, Jaesa, Pierce, Broonmark. The Republic commandos were focusing fire on Ruth, but as they noticed Jaesa's capability they started splitting efforts.

Ruth worked as best she could, fighting with careful focus. Vette staggered to cover and didn't come back up; Ruth recognized her own swell of rage but let it pass, struggling instead to keep a controlled flow as the battle roared on. The engagement was sizeable, yes, but they were making progress. This could work.

A commando positioned someplace where none of Ruth's people were pointing suddenly dropped. Moments later a second yelped in pain, one arm dropping limp. Seconds after that he went down, too.

The battle burned to an end far faster than Ruth had first expected; all but the helpful sniper were accounted for. Ruth glided towards cover from the direction the shots had most likely come from, and she watched.

Wynston emerged from a shadowed arch and trotted down the nearest scrap-metal slope. He carried a sniper rifle with a Republic logo stenciled on the side in one hand. He tossed it at Pierce. "For your collection," he said. "Prime condition."

"Not bad," said Pierce, eyeing the rifle.

"Should be two more up around there and there if you like, owners dead courtesy of the piece you're carrying." Wynston pointed quickly to a couple of vantage points above the scene, then looked around on the ground. "Vette. Where is she?"

The Twi'lek in question was making an effort to stand up or crawl out from behind a large metal scrap. "Leg kind of awkward," she reported. "Doesn't look bad as deep plasma burns go. And I'll have you know that I never knew that before I started working for you, Wrath-lady."

Ruth felt like she was supposed to return what passed for humor there. "All part of a well-rounded education," she said uneasily, "which wasn't supposed to come with much personal bodily harm." She watched anxiously as Wynston took over tending to Vette's wound. He looked focused but not distressed; he always looked like that during the mechanical parts of operations. She wondered what he got like when he lost a patient.

Pierce was turning the sniper rifle over in his hands; he shot Wynston a look when the Chiss stood up again. "This is special issue," he said.

Wynston nodded. "SIS provides for their people. Unfortunately for them, their operational methods and certain tracking signatures aren't quite as sophisticated as their rifles." He looked around. "Anyone else hurt?" Pierce, Broonmark, and Ruth all made negative noises. "Good."

She smiled cautiously. "I didn't expect to see you." Her instincts were glad he was there, but it was exactly what she had told him not to do.

"I worked as promised," he said. "I've pulled some files on Vowrawn for your review, we can go over them at your leisure. After that, I caught some chatter on certain channels. SIS and spec ops team flew in especially to meet the Emperor's Wrath. I tried to call you but you weren't picking up. Local jamming, it actually gave me a beacon to home in on should I choose to give chase." He grinned sheepishly. "So then I left the ship. Sorry."

*

She had looked all right fighting. Not exactly contented, but not berserk, either. Wynston was a little disappointed to find that she hadn't made any solid progress in her investigation, but there was something to be said for just getting through the day.

He spoke idly with the crew on the way back to the ship. He even coaxed a small preoccupied smile out of Ruth, eventually. She used to balance work and play so well. She used to a lot of things, he supposed. She'd been doing so well, bringing something not only reasonable but lovely into circles of power that didn't have nearly enough of either. And in return Quinn and the rest of them had battered her to the point where she feared her own friends and some of them feared her.

There were ways to fix this. There had to be. It wouldn't be instantaneous, and it wouldn't even be one of the nice situations where a careful setup and quick hit would put the whole system back into sustainable balance; it would require care, and there were so very many factors actively working to break it. Working to pointlessly, wastefully, willfully, savagely break it.

He grinned idly and tossed a joke into the conversation and wished the rocket tram would go faster.

*

The moment they got back to the ship Wynston turned to Ruth and said, very casually, "I hate to be an inconvenience, but can we talk?"

The round of knowing looks around her was over almost before it had begun. Never mind that. She wanted to know exactly what had led up to him deserting his post.

She saw him into her quarters and shut the door. "What's wrong?" she asked. Or, actually, more like "What's wro-nf," because he closed quick and hard and kissed her. For a few moments his hands seemed to be everywhere at once; then they settled with one cradling her face and the other fitted to her waist. He smelled of sweat and plasma and tasted of something sharp and chemical, something left over from the battle or its preparations, something that said he wasn't prepared and polished this time.

When he broke away he held her face close. "You've got a bloody lot of people determined to hurt you, you know," he said.

"I know."

"I won't have it." He touched her brow, her hair. "If it were me I'd wipe name, change style, disappear, but I like your identity and you're doing very well with it and – they will not break you." He pressed his face to her neck and squeezed her so tight it hurt even through her armor. When she hugged him back she felt almost close enough to him.

He let her loose, a tiny bit, and flashed a hard grin. "I suppose you hardly need me to tell you that," he said, and kissed her again.

She pulled back moments later. He was hardly even trying to hide his own bright sharp deep and terribly surprising feelings. "You're angry," she said.

"Not at you," he answered. "Not at you, I promise."

Either he was winding up to do something bad or he was hurting, or possibly both, and she found that either prospect was powerfully upsetting. If there were something she could fight she'd do it. If she had the words she would talk things through, but nothing very intelligent was coming to mind. She stared into his eyes and instinctively matched her breathing to his. He was upset. That wouldn't stand. And so, unable to help any other way, she found herself saying "How do you want this?"

"With you. We can sort out the rest as we go."

*

Two nights ago she had been near silent. This was the first night she ever called his real name. It was good to hear it in her voice. It was right. It was devastating.

*

He seemed content not to move after. She rested a while and tried not to let the cold thoughts start up again while her hands stroked his hair, brushing it clear of his face. She noticed that his eyes were open, staring at the wall. "Wynston?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Preoccupied silence worries me."

He focused back on her with a lazy smile. "It's nothing very verbal, sweet."

Her chest tightened. "You're lying."

The smile dropped. "No. It's nothing like that."

"You have never been nonverbal for more than two minutes at a time. Tell me what's going on."

"Happiness?" he offered, in what was probably meant to be a disarming tone. "Warmth?" She didn't return his grin. "I was just thinking you have a ruinous effect on me," he said softly.

It didn't have the playful tone of his usual flattery. "Is that a problem?"

He stared at the ceiling for a second with an expression she couldn't read. Then he shrugged. "Not in any way that puts you to blame. Are you sure I can't just kiss you and return to afterglow-y silence?"

She looked at him.

"Darling…" he said softly. "I just came here from getting too attached. Please understand, this isn't your problem and is in fact less important than any of the things you have to deal with. It was just on my mind, that's all."

"I wasn't going to attach." As if she were dumb enough to become solely dependent on someone again so soon or cruel enough to do it to someone she liked so much. "You're here now. That's what matters."

He backed off a little bit while his gaze trailed down to the sheets and fixed there. "I am here now. When I leave, you'll have advance warning, and for goodness' sake I'll see that you're better off than you were."

When he left. How matter-of-fact. She tried to give it no more emphasis than he did. "I'm already better off," she said gratefully.

"There's room for improvement."

Which suggested he would stay a while. She liked the idea. "So if I keep my life in shambles will you have to stick around?"

"Probably not, darling. I could conspire with your loved ones to improve your life beyond the telling of it whether you like it or not."

Him and his claims. "No you couldn't."

"I really could."

"Not if I didn't want you to."

He reached for her, and the smallest sliding touch at the right spot on her neck drew a gasp from her before she could remember to be contrary. He smiled mischievously. "I can." Then suddenly he fell away, rolled off the bed and cast about for his pants. "But first I'm getting something to eat."

Ruth felt a surge of annoyance. And, upon realizing the absurdity of that reaction, a welling-up of giggles she had to stifle. "That's not improving my life at all!"

"Long-term investment, darling. I'll make it worth your while."

On an impulse she dropped the joke. "You don't owe me that."

The way he slowed, something in the parting of his lips, told her that that was exactly the right thing to say. "Ruinous," he said, as if reminding himself not to do something.

"Go on." She waved and then relaxed back into the warm bed. She didn't think he would make any trouble out there, and it would be a couple of minutes before she'd be steady on her legs anyway.

*

Wynston, having rounded out the evening with some food and crew conversation and cleanup and so on, now lay back and let Ruth use his chest as pillow.

Busy day. Quinn had been every kind of unpleasant and should remain silenced and out of sight for the time being. Wynston's talk with Jaesa had been tremendously encouraging; everything he saw of her confirmed his early impressions that she was a good sort. He wondered whether more pretty young sane Sith could be arranged in general. It could only be a good thing for everyone involved.

As for the rest of the day, charging in after Ruth probably hadn't been necessary, but he had been restless after hours of monitoring; the exercise had been good. And after that there was simply her.

He wasn't pleased at having had to be so blunt with her. He wished she weren't so insistent on having everything explained openly and part of him wished she didn't undo him to the point where he went along with it. Some women genuinely preferred direct admission of relationship terms, even the unglamorous end conditions. Ruth? Probably not one of those women. But lying to her would've been beyond disastrous and truthfully promising to stick around was something he couldn't do. So he'd told her.

Oddly, she hadn't been angry.

Riding this chemical glow was something he was used to, something he liked. Arranging, enjoying, managing, disentangling as gracefully as possible. Women were wonderful like that. He wouldn't say it was fake just because it was short-lived. This, though, this feeling was too much. He'd known Ruth for too long. The consequences of falling out would be too severe. The consequences of not only wanting to stay, but staying, were…hard to predict, given the total absence of comparable history, but would definitely be bad.

There were ways to fix this. There had to be. He couldn't afford to spook right now. For all the reasons he had listed, and for reasons outside him and Ruth, too. He would just have to manage this.

At least she hadn't rejected his casual mention of her loved ones. Good. If he could clear the hint of fear in her eyes when she looked at her own friends, that would be a triumph. It'd be enough to sustain her when he left.

He held still in the darkness, absorbing her slow strong heartbeat and savoring the way she had said his name. Until the job was done, he would hold her as close as she would let him.

*

Ruth was standing, somewhere, nowhere, she couldn't tell. It didn't matter because Quinn was there with her, kissing her, his arms securely around her, his mouth warm and tender as it was the day he had first held her. It was impossible to hurt when he was here like this, and so without thinking too hard about why, she poured herself into it. She ran a hand through his hair, down around his neck and arm, thrilling to his touch. When his hand slid up her back she felt the snub-nosed blaster moving up to nestle against her neck.

She kept running her hands around his shoulders and back, kissing his lips, his cheek. "Walk away now," she whispered, not for the first time, "and I'll spare you."

"Darling? Wake up." Wynston's breath was warm on her ear. "It's all right."

And, as the nightmare fell away, it was. If she weren't so completely comfortable there in place she would have twisted around to kiss her lover. Instead she found his hand, laced her fingers with his, and went back to sleep.

SNUGGLES. Since I can't seem to write anything else lately. Wynston's presence as a soldier isn't the aspect that changes the long-term game anyway, so, yeah. Some aspects of these people will change in combination in the coming weeks. Some really, really won't.

I imagine the SIS would try pulling something together for a target as important-sounding as Emperor's Wrath. Maybe spec ops come in; not Havoc Squad, but whatever other team they could get on short notice.

It's weird to think that main-U Ruth never knew Wynston's real name when sleeping with him. Ever.