"This had better be worth it," Aric muttered, blindly relying on his mate's hand as she led him out of the building. The heat coming off Tatooine's sands blasted at him, but the blindfold he wore shielded the worst of the glare.

"Alright, you can take it off," Sana said. He could hear the smile in her voice.

Aric lifted the blindfold up off his face and a wide grin split his face. The swoop bike sitting in front of the building was gorgeous, the narrow frame knife-like, the colors rippling across the gleaming metal.

"Nice."

"I had it made on Corellia and shipped here for a test run," Sana said as he circled the machine, crouching down to check out the motor.

"This is...," Aric stood and walked over to her, dropping a hard kiss on her mouth, "...this is way more than I expected. You shouldn't have."

"Well, it's not all for you. You up for a test run?" she grinned at him, cocking a hip to the side.

His slow answering smile was full of good humor and heat. He walked over and slung a leg over the saddle and beckoned her over. "Let's go."

Sana wasted no time in running over and jumping on the swoop behind him, holding on tight as he started up the bike and hit the throttle.

The wind rushed into their faces as they raced along the dunes, the feeling of being free, of testing the limits of machine and man, was exhilerating. When they finally came to a stop on a high point in the Dune Sea, Aric turned around and hauled her into his lap in order to kiss her properly.

"Thank you," he said, "best birthday in a long time."

I don't know why but I can totally picture Aric with a bike and aviator sunglasses. Yes, even with the pointy ears.

http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2012/222/a/2/aric_jorgan_by_kabeone-d5ajmum.png

sorry i don't know what sana looks like, so that's supposed to be your forum avatar instead. haha.

“ENSIGN TEMPLE!” hollered Sha’ra’zaed. Her voice reverberated in the small ship.

Temple came running from her post on the bridge. “Yes, Cipher? Have I—“ she skidded to a halt in the doorway upon viewing the bizarre tableau, “Sir?” she said, dumfounded.

Sha’ra’zaed stood in the center of the room wearing a pearl-grey evening gown of Dromund Kaas design. The holoterminal behind her was on but no channel opened; the pale shaft of light shimmered with suspended reflective particles. Sha’ra’zaed’s long blue hair was unbound and flowed down her back, crowned with a, well, crown twisted from bits of console wiring and dusted with silver glitter. More glitter sparkled in her hair and on her indigo skin. A hidden power pack supplied light to flexiglass-fiber tubules that twinkled around her like stars. She carried Vector’s electrostaff, dressed up for the occasion with silvery scarves and what looked like several different sets of rank insignia randomly snapped into the fabric. Vector, Lokin, and Kaliyo flanked her wearing headgear crafted in a similar fashion.

“You have been called to the Court of Queen Galaxia!” she began, “for it has come to my attention that you have never once descended below the galactic equator into rarefied negative z-axis coordinates! You must pay homage to the Queen! My courtiers have designed tasks for you, to see if you are worthy to enter my domain!”

Temple tittered, “Oh, I heard about this—“

“SILENCE!” Sha’ra’zaed roared, rapping the electrostaff on the deck, “The squib shall not address the Queen without permission!”

Temple grinned and saluted, “My apologies, Queen Galaxia,” she said, “I am as yet unacquainted with proper court protocol.” She bowed low.

Sha’ra’zaed shifted her weight, “We shall forgive the squib’s outburst this time. Court Advisor, your task please,” she said, addressing Doctor Lokin.

Lokin stepped forward. Several small circular mirrors hung on long springy wires extended from a recording circlet. They nodded with his movement. He stopped before Temple. With an exaggerated flourish he produced a chem-pad from the medbay’s biohazard cleanup kit and held it up, “One of the Royal children requires a diaper change. This shall be your task,” he said.

Ensign Temple looked blank, “The…royal children, sir?” she asked, accepting the chem-pad.

“You will want these,” he said, handing her a set of heavy elbow-length gloves usually reserved for handling spent engine fuel pods.

“Umm, yes, sir, I suppose…” she continued.

“And this,” he said. He pressed an inoculator to her arm. It hissed as he administered the injection. “Your charge is in the medbay—er, the Royal nursery.”

Temple tugged on the gloves and walked with trepidation to the medbay. A specimen cage containing a rakghoul the size of a human infant sat on one of the exam tables. It growled and paced back and forth in its small enclosure. “Umm, I’m not sure this is such—“ she turned around and almost bumped into Lokin, “er, such a good idea, sir.”

“Shall I tell the Queen you were unable to complete my task?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Temple glanced back at the rakghoul. The cage was made of clear ceraglass with two arm-diameter holes cut in the side, both of which sealed shut with simple toggles. The rakghoul gnawed on the interior edge of one of the holes. Saliva ran down the side of the chamber, “N-no, sir, I can do this,” she said. Temple pulled the gloves on a little tighter and wadded the chem-pad up in the palm of her left hand. Then she approached the specimen cage.

“My feet are killing me,” Sha’ra’zaed whispered to Kaliyo. “How can your shoes be smaller than mine?” she asked.

“Hey, I never said they were my shoes,” said Kaliyo, “just that they would go perfect with that getup. Hey, she’s coming back.”

Ensign Temple returned to the common room. Her hair was mussed, her uniform askew, and the gloves stripped down to their phobium-mesh layer in places. But she carried the specimen cage. Inside, the rakghoul scratched at the sides, the chem-pad wrapped around its body and held on with liberal amounts of emergency wound tape.

Sha’ra’zaed straightened, “Ahh, the squib returns. We see you have completed your task. What does the Royal Advisor say?”

“The squib has completed her task to my satisfaction, Queen Galaxia,” replied Lokin, “I’ll just remove the royal child back to the nursery, yes?” he said, taking the cage from Temple.

“Excellent, excellent,” Shara’zaed said, “Two more tasks remain. Court Magician?” she called.

Vector stepped forward. He’d borrowed one of Sha’ra’zaed’s uniform hats and attached a pair of portable communicator antennae to it. “Yes, our queen?”

Kaliyo snickered, but Sha’ra’zaed ignored her, “Your task, please.”

“Of course,” he replied, “Ensign?” Temple stepped forward and saluted again, then quickly stripped off the shredded gloves. “We shall instruct you in communicating through auras.”

“Through what, sir?” asked Temple.

“Auras. The preferred mode of communication among the Killiks,” he made a show of adjusting his antennae, “Our queen believes it is important for you to communicate in this fashion.”

Temple glanced at Sha’ra’zaed, then back at Vector, “I’m ready, sir,” she said.

“Excellent,” said Vector, “We shall begin with something easy. Happiness is a blue glow with silver highlights and an accompanying pleasant aroma, often reminiscent of fruit, nectar, or honey. We shall demonstrate.” Vector stood very still for a minute. Nothing happened. “Now, please replicate,” he said.

Temple blinked, “But I didn’t see anything, sir,” she said, “I don’t quite understand what I’m supposed to do.”

“Nevertheless, this should not be difficult. Please attempt,” said Vector.

Temple took a deep breath and stood very still. Vector broke in after only a few seconds, “No, not green, though nervousness is understandable. Try again.” Temple’s brow furrowed in concentration, but Vector interrupted, “No, no. That odor is rather unpleasant.” Temple’s audience giggled at his comment. “Happiness, something that gives you pleasure, ensign,” he reiterated.

Temple concentrated again. “Why, thank you. We appreciate the compliment, ensign,” Vector continued, “You also have a pleasing face and we would like to get to know you better.” Abruptly his expression changed, “Oh, dear,” he said, looking embarrassed, “that’s not quite what we had in mind.”

Ensign Temple’s eyes widened, “What?” she asked.

“Well, that’s not quite appropriate for the company,” said Vector, taking a small step back.

“What?” reiterated Temple.

“We are flattered, of course,” Vector said, “but we are not sure we like you in that way,” he said, studying the space surrounding her.

Kaliyo barked a laugh. Temple blushed, “No, that’s not right,” she objected, “I wasn’t thinking about that,” she said.

“We should not rush into things, ensign,” he continued, ignoring her spoken comments, “we have only just met.”

More laughter. Temple blushed deeper, but she was grinning, “I am not thinking that,” she said.

“We are in a relationship right now—“ Vector began, then cut off as he pretended to inspect Temple’s aura more closely, “No, we meant we as in we ourselves and another, not you and—“ again another pause, and general laughter from the crowd. “Well, we suppose so, but we do not think that is a wise course of action.”

Ensign Temple looked around at the others, “I have no idea what’s going on,” she said with a smile, “I swear I am not thinking anything of the sort.”

“If you insist, ensign,” said Vector, still holding his one-sided conversation, “but we must advise caution.” Vector studied her for a moment, “You have quite a…vivid aura,” he said.

“Your verdict, Court Magician?” interrupted Sha’ra’zaed.

“The squib communicates very well through the use of auras,” replied Vector, to the uproarious laughter of all, “but she will require a bit more instruction.”

“I see,” said Sha’ra’zaed, “will you be able to continue this instruction?”

Vector made a slight bow, “The squib has expressed her interest most emphatically. It would be our pleasure to do so, Queen Galaxia,” he said. Temple joined in the general hilarity. Vector bowed again toward Temple, “We trust you are not offended?” he whispered, gently touching her sleeve.

She shook her head no, “It’s fine, sir,” she said.

“For your last task,” intoned Sha’ra’zaed, “Sergeant-at-Arms!”

Kaliyo stepped forward. She declined a hat entirely, instead taping a small holdout blaster upside down to the top of her head like a crest. “All right, all right. My best guess is you barely know one end of a blaster from another. So you get to build one,” Kaliyo pushed Temple over to the dejaric table and set a fabric sack on it. She removed the drawstring and it fell open, revealing a tangle of blaster parts and pieces.

Temple looked at the jumble, “Oh, this shouldn’t be too difficult,” she said.

“Confident, huh?” asked Kaliyo. “Okay. You get a hydrospanner and a sonic screwdriver and—“ she fished a shot glass out of the pile, “six shots of Mandalorian Rum!”

Temple paled.

Sha’ra’zaed rapped the electrostaff on the deck again, “No Mandalorian rum, Sergeant-at-Arms. We discussed this.”

“Aw, come on, Queenie,” said Kaliyo, “A party’s no fun without booze.”

“No Mandalorian rum,” Sha’ra’zaed reiterated

“Spoilsport,” Kaliyo grumbled, “Fine then. Instead you get,” another dramatic pause, “to assemble the blaster blindfolded!” She fished a dirty rag from her pocket and tied it over Temple’s eyes, “Though I still think drunk would be more fun.”

Kaliyo spun Temple around three times then directed her to the pile of parts on the dejarik table. Wobbling, Temple felt through the jumble and began separating the pieces from each other. In short order she had the guts of the mechanism assembled. Except that the remaining pieces didn’t fit. She disassembled the parts she had and started over, this time working from the barrel end. Still no good; the space left was too small for the emitters and the gas load. She pulled it apart for a third time and began again, with the same result. Finally she put together the two individual units and straightened, “Sergeant-at- Arms? I believe there is more than one blaster here,” she said.

“Nope,” Kaliyo said, “You got all the parts to make one. One barrel, two emitters, gas cylinder, little bitty computer, stock, all the guts. All the parts for one. ”

“Yes, but they don’t fit together,” said Temple.

“Maybe you’re doing it wrong,” said Kaliyo.

“I am quite sure I am correct,” said Temple, “And while the barrel and the stock assembly seem to be from a blaster, it is my opinion that the remainder is from a rifle or larger.”

“You think so?” asked Kaliyo.

“I am certain,” said Temple, “if you would permit me to remove the blindfold, I could check.”

“That’s cheating, you know,” said Kaliyo.

Temple stood straight, “Queen Galaxia, permission to remove my blindfold?”

Sha’ra’zaed tapped the staff, “Granted,” she said.

When Ensign Temple removed her blindfold she laughed. The difference between the two sections was obvious. The barrel and stock were from a typical hand-held blaster. But the guts of the thing were completely oversized. Not rifle-sized, closer to assault-cannon sized.

Kaliyo slapped her on the back, “Three tries? Not bad at all. Course, if we’d done it my way you’d still be working on it.”

“I’d have made two, since I’d be seeing double,” Temple retorted.

Kaliyo tipped her head, “Hmm, we’ll have to work on that alcohol tolerance.”

Sha’ra’zaed rapped the deck again, “Sergeant-at-Arms, does the squib pass your test?”

“Yeah, she passed,” grumbled Kaliyo, “can we get to the party part now?”

“In a moment, Sergeant-at-Arms. Ensign Raina Temple, approach!” commanded Sha’ra’zaed. Temple came forward and bowed. “Ensign Temple, your actions please us. We find you worthy to continue your travels along the negative z-axis. Congratulations, you are no longer a squib! Kneel before your queen.” Temple did so. Sha’ra’zaed reached for a fourth silly hat, this one an oversized brownish beret decorated with a coil of corrugated coolant exhaust tubing colored brown to match the fabric. One end of the tube featured a grinning mouth filled with stubby teeth and a pair of black eyes courtesy of replacement terminal buttons. Sha’ra’zaed placed the hat on Temple’s head with great ceremony. “You are now a space slug! Fit to join the company of other space slugs!”

The crew applauded as Temple rose. Kaliyo quit first, “All right, party time!” She retreated to the conference room, set up as a buffet with a variety of snacks and drinks. Kaliyo headed straight for the bar and poured herself a generous shot of Mandalorian rum, quaffing it in one gulp.

Later on, Temple approached Sha’ra’zaed, who sat barefoot on one of the ship’s couches. “I thought Intelligence was more separate from the regular Imperial military,” she said, “I didn’t expect you to hold with this tradition. Especially on a non-military ship.”

Sha’ra’zaed took a sip of a cloudy purple liqueur, “You don’t appreciate a day off?” she asked wryly.

“Oh, no, sir, that’s not what I meant at all,” said Temple. “It was just a surprise.”

Sha’ra’zaed swirled her drink, “I was looking over your service record, and noticed all of your assignments happened to be above the galactic equator. Well, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, now could I?”

Temple grinned, “I suppose not, sir. Would the military normally include Intelligence officers? On a regular ship?”

“Depends on the ship and the captain. To be honest, it’s the one chance the rank-and-file has of ridiculing Intelligence or higher-ranked officers without expecting repercussions. My first crossing was on a cruiser, and the first officer was a squib too,” Sha’ra’zaed said, sipping her drink, “He had to serve Chandrilan brandy to each of the other ranking officers and match them, drink for drink. Then recite the Republic Senatorial Oath of Office without falling over or vomiting.”

Temple pushed her hat back up and laughed, “Did he do it?” she asked.

“Barely,” said Sha’ra’zaed, “He threw up just before the recitation. The Queen—who was also the Captain—decided this did not violate the rules, so he got lucky.”

“If I may, sir,” Temple began, “what was your task?”

“Ahh,” said Sha’ra’zaed, setting her glass down, “I had to walk around on my hands,” she held her hands over her head, “upside down. Because I was ‘as yet unaccustomed to negative z-axis coordinates and required additional acclimatization,’” she replied.

Temple giggled, “For how long?” she asked.

“On and off for an hour or so,” Sha’ra zaed said, “It would be easy for the event to turn mean-spirited, especially where it’s not policed well. But it’s supposed to be in good fun,” she picked up her drink again. “So now you’re officially part of the crew.”

Temple set her drink down, “Thank you, sir. It means a lot.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Sha’ra’zaed, “Usually the squibs only have to do one task, but we had only the one squib. So you got three tasks. And you didn’t have any other squibs with you. But you were a good sport about it all the same.”

Temple stretched, “Thank you, sir. Now if you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in.”

“Not at all,” replied Sha’ra’zaed, “help me put Kaliyo up as well. She needs to sleep off that rum.”

Kaliyo lay on the floor beneath the holoterminal, an empty bottle of Mandalorian rum at her side. They dragged her to the crew quarters and managed to load her still-sleeping body into a lower bunk. She snored quietly, unaware of being moved.

“Get some rest, ensign,” said Sha’ra’zaed.

“I will, sir,” Temple replied and closed the door.

Sha’ra’zaed padded directly to the medbay and retrieved another chem-pad. She gingerly picked up Kaliyo’s spent bottles and shot glasses, avoiding contact with the liquid. She disposed of the lot in the biohazard incinerator. There was a solid fwump as the device reduced the glass and its attendant contamination to slag and ejected it into the hyperstream outside. Then she returned to the common room.

Doctor Lokin raised his glass to her, “Congratulations, Agent, you are one of the more devious people I have ever met,” he said.

Sha’ra’zaed took a seat, “I’m not at all certain that’s a compliment coming from you, doctor.”

“Do take it as such,” he said, “I had my doubts this would work. But she never suspected a thing. And I needn’t have worried about the dosage. The woman drinks like a fish.”

Sha’ra’zaed arched her eyebrows, “I thought she would like the idea of hazing Temple. I didn’t expect she would down three bottles. I am glad you spread it over two, but when she opened the third I was concerned she’d notice a difference in flavor.”

Lokin snorted, “I don’t think she would have noticed much of anything by that time. Not with Mandalorian rum at any rate.”

Sha’ra’zaed turned to Vector, still wearing his absurd hat, “Is it affecting her?”

Vector nodded, “There is a subtle alteration to her aura. It will take several weeks to resolve, we think, using your treatment as baseline.”

Sha’ra’zaed glanced at the vent overhead. There was the usual whisper of the air recirculation system, as well as the thrum of the hyperdrive and the other mechanical systems. “The harmonics are in place then,” Sha’ra’zaed asked, looking at Lokin.

“Yes,” replied Vector and Lokin in unison. Vector continued alone, “The sound is a minor irritant, but we will soon learn to ignore it.”

“I’m sorry, Vector,” said Sha’ra’zaed, “You’re the only one who’ll notice.”

“It is of little consequence. As we said, we will soon accept it as part of the normal background noise,” he said, “We are concerned, however, with your state of mind. Are you certain this is what you want to do?”

Sha’ra’zaed sighed, “Want? No. Need? Yes. If Kaliyo demonstrated the slightest amount of morality, or even common sense, these steps wouldn’t be necessary. But she hasn’t and won’t. I can’t have a security leak like that on my crew. I can’t afford it. And not just because of what Intelligence would do. Eventually she’ll compromise an operation, assuming she hasn’t already. I can’t allow it.”

Lokin set his sniffer down, “It is not an ideal solution. Behavioral modifications like this take time, and as you can attest, are not always successful.”

“I know,” said Sha’ra’zaed, “She knows to much for me to just cut her loose. Keeper won’t allow me to dispose of her, for reasons I still can’t fathom, and I can’t use Wheezer as a lever. I’m out of options,” Sha’ra’zaed drank the last of her liqueur, “Personally, I’d prefer to be rid of her. ‘Killed in Action’ at worst, though that would raise an awful lot of suspicions, and if unsuccessful I’d have tipped my hand. I may not like her, but to give credit where it’s due, she is canny enough to avoid or escape a trap.

“I’ll just have to settle for subtle programming. This isn’t like the Castellan restraints. No keyword, no triggered compulsion. Just incorporating the kind of behavior a reasonable person would exhibit as a matter of course. She will prefer to remain in my employ as opposed to leaving, and to gather more information on a ‘big score’ before trying to sell it on. I doubt I could curb her mercenary self-interest streak any other way,” Sha’ra’zaed said.

Lokin nodded sagely, “Naturally. You realize that your definition of ‘reasonable’ and her definition of ‘reasonable’ are not the same?”

Sha’ra’zaed stared into his eyes, “In this instance, mine is the only one that matters.”

I got the idea for this celebration from “crossing the Equator” parties/hazing rituals in modern and historic navies (not to mention a ‘getting the key’ initiation in my old guild on a different MMO). I have no doubt an analogous tradition would exist in the Republic and Imperial forces. People have been finding ways to torment newbies since the beginning of time.

I thought the story was interesting. It was hard for me to understand because I think it kind of just dropped me in the middle of a scene with no context. That's fine I'm sure it would make sense if I were reading a whole book. Our short fic here has the benefit that the context is well known SW:ToR universe so we don't have to build very much, our framework is fairly solid.

The only thing that I thought would turn people off is the formatting, it's kind of bad, if you can go into that site and fix it you should try because it was hard to read as is, namely it needs more whitespace between the dialog.

Last small critique (and I say this knowing I make errors and whatnot all over the place). Your dialog often looks like this:

Svein looked up at Vette,” Hate is such a strong word Vette. The words I was looking for was a mild dislike of them.”

It should look like this:

Svein looked up at Vette, "Hate is such a strong word Vette. The words I was looking for was a mild dislike of them."

The space goes after the comma and there is no space after the first quote. I'm not sure what caused that formatting for you, maybe your wordprocessor stuck that in there.

I hope I didn't come off as harsh, I really really really really (enough emphasis?) don't mean to be, because I enjoy your writing.

Actually, this is the kind of comment I was looking for. Thanks for your opinion it really does mean a bunch to me. I will totally keep this in mind when editing. Also, I will make sure when writing in that universe that I "indirectly" explain some things just to not make the reader feel clueless. But, thank you do much Kabe! I am really glad you enjoy my writing!

The bridge was empty. She paused briefly to wonder where Quinn was, figured he must be sleeping since he rarely ever seemed to, then wondered where her brother had gone. Vikis had taken Vette in a huff, refused to utter even one word to her and got in one of the shuttles. Since he had been on the bridge before his melt down, Ellivian decided to take a gander to see what she could see.

And to spy on her big brother a little of course.

Tapping a data pad against her leg, Ellivian wandered the consoles, looking over the buttons and lights and trajectories and nav assignments, searching for clues as to what had set her brother off. The only thing that was in any way promising was a recording on the mini holo projector. But it was encoded. Not that that was going to stop her or anything.

She sat comfortably in the Captain's chair and picked at the encoding for a while. It was deeper than she had thought at first and after stewing in frustration for the better part of an hour, she finally decided that it was high time to cheat. She stroked a thumb down the cybernetics on her left cheek and they hummed to life. Removing a hair thin rod from its casing below her eye, Ellivian plugged it into the holo projector and activated it.

Slicing into the vid was going to take a little bit of time. Ellivian looked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone before setting her datapad on the console before her. She swiped her finger across the front panel and the pad responded. She chose her program and settled back, intent on wiling away the time.

She never heard Quinn enter the bridge.

He didn't see her at first either. After a long stretch of a three hour sleep and a shower, he was in a fresh uniform and ready to return to his duties. He crossed immediately to his preferred console and then froze when the wispy strains of some childhood song caressed his ear. He wasn't alone. She was here.

Quinn's back jacked straight and he pulled down roughly on his uniform. Nonexistent wrinkles immediately smoothed themselves, though it did nothing to help the little ball of nerves that grew in his stomach. He turned his head and pin pointed the sound of the humming. She was lazily swiveling in the Captain's chair, a datapad in her hand and something working on the mini holo projector.

Curiosity got the better of him and he walked quietly towards her. “My lord?” he asked when he got right over her shoulder. He did a double take at her datapad.

“Malavai!” Ellivian pretended she didn't jump. Nope, she didn't jump at all. Certainly not an meter or two off her seat. She swiped her hand across her datapad, making the screen go dark. “You're lurking!” she accused, pointing a finger at him and frowning. “Why are you lurking? Don't you have something to do?”

“My something to do is here, my lord,” Quinn sniffed. “However, you looked quite busy.”

“It's nothing, Malavai,” Ellivian said. She set her datapad aside and reached for the holo projector to retrieve her cybernetic.

“Nothing?” Quinn asked, realizing she was embarrassed. He rather liked the faint flush of color that suddenly rode her cheeks. “You were quite enraptured by this...” he snatched the datapad off of the console even as she lunged for it. He keyed the screen back on and felt the corner of his mouth quirk up unexpectedly. “This... Color Bubble Power Blaster game. A satisfactory high score, my lord, I must say.”

“Give. Me.” Ellivian leaned into him and he held the pad above his head and to the side. He was considerably taller than her, she had no chance. “Honestly, Malavai!” She heard the loser buzzer of the level failing itself. “You made me lose. Give it back. I'm not above Force choking you unconscious for it,” she threatened.

Quinn paused and looked down at her. She didn't look angry, but the color on her cheeks was darker now. A slash of crimson below eyes the color of a golden sunset. His arm dropped in his distraction and she snagged the corner of the datapad, not quite able to pull it from his grasp.

The struggle was interrupted by the success twitter of the decoding program she had been using on the holo projector. They both looked, though she was still pressed against his body and they were still semi-wrestling for the datapad.

A sour looking woman with hair the same color as Ellivian's, though it was much threaded with silver, came into view. She scowled out at them and Quinn felt Ellivian stiffen against him.

“That's my mother,” she said. Quinn could see the resemblance though the daughter was considerably more beautiful, if only because she didn't posses a look like she'd been sucking on something pungent and sour. Ellivian let the datapad go and turned her attention to her mother's message, though Quinn was highly aware that she hadn't stepped away from him.

“Vol'vikis. Your father has fallen ill. He wants you to know that if you don't come see him before he dies, he won't rework his last Will and Testament. Everything we own will go to that sniveling, nerf-licking bastard son he had before he married me. You had better be on your way home right now or your father will see me on the streets before choosing to haunt me. And do not tell Adris or your sister until after your useless progenitor dies. There's nothing anyone can do anyway.”

The message ended and Ellivian made a face. “Good riddance,” she said breezily, but Quinn thought he caught a hitch in her breathing. She turned her face back up to him and reached again for the datapad. “Where were we?”

“My lord, if I may...” Quinn said, again holding the pad out of her reach. “You may have this back. If you can beat my high score.”

“What? I am the master at Color Bubble Power Blaster. Hand it over, Malavai.”

“You would like to think that, but you see, I've scored at least three million more points than you on this level. You're taking too long in breaking down the first three rows.”

“No way. Show me.”

Quinn restarted the level. Then proceeded to wipe the floor with her.

Kaas City, Dromund Kaas

12 ATC

It was well after midnight, and the party showed no signs of slowing. If anything, it was increasing in its frenzy. People continued to arrive—Sith, officers, dignitaries.

Quinn had found a spot in a corner from which to observe the chaos. He watched the people, his mind breaking down their interactions into abstract shapes, lines, colors. Patterns emerged, blurry at first, but rapidly gaining clarity as time wore on.

The gathering was like a kaleidoscopic spider web. Each piece existed on its own, yet at the same time functioned as a part of the whole. And every thread in the tapestry connected back to a single central point.

Darth Baras stood at the center of the chaos, seeming to both participate and observe. The spider king lording over his web, the master artisan admiring his creation. He seemed to sense that he was being watched; the mask turned Quinn’s way, and offered a tiny nod.

Quinn replied with a small bow, which seemed to satisfy the Sith Lord, as he turned his attention back to his conversation with Lord Draahg.

It had taken considerable effort for Quinn to escape the heart of the maelstrom and retreat to his current position on the sidelines. Baras was in high spirits, lauding him as the hero of the hour, promising him promotion and more, and introducing him to countless influential people. It was overwhelming.

Seeing that Baras was otherwise occupied, Quinn made his way around the perimeter of the room and quietly slipped into one of the back rooms of Baras’ chambers. Away from the noise, away from the pressure of dozens of beings crowding in one place, he could try to think clearly.

‘Try’ being the operative word, of course—this room was also occupied.

Despite his best efforts, Quinn was unable to tear his eyes away from the small table upon which A’tro’s body had been laid in state. Numbly, he found himself walking toward it.

Although she had been one of Baras’ greatest enemies, the Sith Lord had still ordered that her remains be treated with respect. The blood had been cleaned off, the scorch marks on her armor carefully scrubbed away. Even her hair had been removed from its tie and carefully combed.

Her golden eyes were still open. Their clouded gaze seemed to follow him, silently accusing.

Quinn had killed many times before, but this was the only one that felt like a murder.

He had held her in his arms as she died. His uniform still had her blood on it; he had worn his spare ever since. He hadn’t had the heart to wash it out, to remove the last traces of her from his life.

He was startled to find tears springing to his eyes. Why couldn’t he just let this go?

The decision had made perfect sense at the time. Eliminate a threat to Darth Baras, ensure the future security of the Empire. A lingering sense of personal attachment to her was to be expected, like phantom pain from a severed limb. But she had made it quite clear that she wanted nothing more to do with him, so there was no point in disobeying his orders. He meant nothing to her, so why did it matter if he betrayed her?

Quinn brushed a hand across his eyes. He remembered the fight as clearly as if it had just occurred. He knew that it would remain seared into his memory for the rest of his life.

A’tro had fallen to the ground. He knew that her wound was mortal. It seemed unfair, in some strange way, for her to die there alone on the cold floor, so he had knelt beside her and lifted her up into his arms. She had offered no resistance. It would only be a few moments until the end.

She had looked up at him then, and whispered, “My fault… I do love you…” And then her eyes stared blankly beyond him, through him, and he was left holding her corpse and feeling as if he were the one who had died.

My fault. I do love you.

All of his cold rationalizations had fallen to pieces in that single instant. Remorse was bitter, catching in his throat, sending desperate anguish searing through his mind. And then everything went numb. A defensive mechanism—easier to feel nothing than to acknowledge the pain of a deadly mistake.

Quinn looked down at A’tro and wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if things had been different. If she had survived his attempt on her life, could she have forgiven him? If she loved him…

He had been drawn to her like a moth to the flame, knowing all the while that it was wrong. Each kiss, each glance exchanged had been overlaid with a sense of doomed inevitability. Perhaps she had dreamed of an impossible future where they could be together; he had never expected to outlive her.

A moth to the flame, yet in the end, she was the one who had been burned.

And now he was alone, bound to the servitude of a Sith Lord whom he was growing to despise. He had admired Baras once, but now the man sickened him. The cyborg Lord Draahg was a monstrosity—he was almost grateful that A’tro had died relatively quickly at his hands, and had been spared Draagh’s brutality.

Quinn laid a hand on his blaster. It would be so easy to just end it all, let the merciful darkness swallow him up. He almost drew the weapon, but stopped. A’tro seemed to stare at him mockingly.

“I deserve death,” he whispered.

It went against everything he had ever been taught. An Imperial officer did not succumb to despair. An Imperial officer fought until the end, even when there was no hope of victory. His death, like his life, should be in service to the Empire.

Duty comes first, he told himself. Always.

Always…

Quinn reached out and gently closed A’tro’s eyes. Then he turned and left the room.

So this is pretty sympathetic to Quinn, but I am generally pretty sympathetic towards him, even with the...incident. Also, this is an alternate universe version of my headcanon, so expect stories in the future taking place after chapter three in which my Warrior is alive and well!

I do wonder what would've happened if Quinn had succeeded. How he would've coped with killing my various Warriors (a rigidly formal traditionalist, or any of the assorted women) and how his career would've gone with Baras commanding the war effort and continuing to purge his ranks at the least excuse.