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Ninety Seven Percent


irishfino

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This is a story following the aftermath of the Quinncident (the Quinn Thing in the SW storyline) from Quinn's point of view. Tidbits here and here give a little taste of the future. There will be exploration of PTSD and depression. Lots of drama and angst, a bit of blood, and (believe it or not) some humor.

 

Malavai Quinn and Light side Jaesa Wilsaam romance.

 

Enjoy.

 

In which Quinn is abandoned on Balmorra...

 

She had sent him to the place they had first met: Balmorra. Nothing changed on this planet. It smelled the same, like death and spent munitions. A heavy fog from shells and dirt hung in the air; the same. He was given the same office, in the same building, with the same desk, and the same shade of grey paint (though a bit fresher, much to his dismay). The only thing that had changed in this familiar scene was him.

 

He remembered when he first met the apprentice he would turn spy on. She was beautiful, skilled, strong and more than proficient with the Force. She shirked authority when it pleased her, openly testing Baras with taunting words. She let enemies live when it tickled her fancy and reveled in their confusion and hesitant “thank yous”. She was unpredictable on the field, but her connection to the Force increased at an easily calculable rate. Baras had given him the kill order during their stint on Belsavis, but he had long since perfected the algorithm needed to defeat her. When she tore through those droids in a matter of minutes, he realized his mistake: she never fought at full power unless she wanted to make a point to an enemy. And she made her point. All over his body. Several times.

 

When she was done brutalizing him, she laid in a course for Balmorra. He was fortunate enough to black out several times during the trip and even more so fortunate that she had been kind enough to dump him in the medical bay to suffer in silence alone.

 

When they arrived, she kicked his badly injured body down the ramp of her Fury. He felt his ribs shift and stab at his insides, but he was too far gone to feel pain anymore. He heard her impassioned speech echo throughout the hanger. His was the fate of any who dared cross the Emperor’s Wrath. The medics had to wait for her to finish (she did just make a speech about killing those who crossed her) and the ship to leave the hanger before they could get to him. When they reached him, they considered him a lost cause. His chest was cut open in three deep slashes, his barely beating heart visible to the world. His right arm was severed at the shoulder, hanging on by a bit of muscle. His windpipe was crushed, his pupils dilated, his skin scorched and bruised. But his hearing was intact. He had heard every word, every murmur of agreement, every gasp of fear. Slowly, his chest stopped rising and the darkness finally settled over his pained features. Sweet silence.

 

He came to three months later (by his calculation) floating in a Kolto tank. He was mostly whole again. His ribs no longer shifted, cortosis grafting most likely. He tried to roll his right shoulder, but it was stiff and did not yield to his controls. Severe nerve and tissue damage, nothing physical therapy couldn’t help with. After six months, he was mostly whole again, but still stranded on Balmorra.

 

It was déjà vu when the Wrath, closely followed by Vette, walked into his office. He tugged a bit at his collar, but remained civil. He bowed and greeted them graciously, but they remained strangely silent. Suddenly, the Wrath ignited her lightsaber and charged at him while Vette laid down suppressive fire. He rolled to a nearby desk to avoid the flying blaster bolts, but the Wrath’s lightsaber cut through the durasteel easily. He scrambled away from her. She raised her saber, ready to swing it down on him.

 

“This is what I should have done to you when I first met you here, Malavai,” she hissed angrily.

 

She brought the saber down in a cruel arc. He screamed.

 

“Commander?” a voice crackled from the intercom in his room. “Everything alright in there?”

 

He bolted upright in his bunk covered in sweat and panting. Those around him had become so used to those around them waking up screaming, that there was little shock at his condition. Shell shock, they said. Post-traumatic stress, the doctors said. Just dreams, he convinced himself.

 

“Commander?” the voice asked again.

 

“I’m fine, Ensign Trent,” he answered stiffly.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He hated this. He hated waking up soaked in sweat. He hated the concerned looks his staff gave him when they thought he wasn’t looking. He hated Balmorra. He hated his own cowardice. If he ever got his hands on Baras he would ring his fat neck, shortly before being cut to pieces, but he would die gloriously.

 

Major Ovech discovered him a short time later, bringing him back under his command. He settled quickly into a routine aboard Harrower class Dreadnaught. He was able to lose himself in the day to day hustle and bustle of wartime. He even began to look forward to his physical therapy. Soon, he would be back to one-hundred percent. There was one small problem. Well, not small. It was, in fact, rather large. He had panic attacks around Force users, specifically angry Sith armed with lightsabers. Ovech was rather kind about it, keeping him clear of Force users, Sith lords and Jedi prisoners alike. The next six months passed by with little incident. Then, as they were wont to do, things turned toxic.

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I heard rallying cries of "more" (from all two of you, heehee).

 

Enjoy.

 

In which Quinn has a panic attack...

 

He straightened his collar in the mirror and patted furiously at his hair. His stubborn cowlick popped up mockingly. He would deal with it later. With fire. No, not fire. That would be stupid. He always hated preparing for a visiting Sith lord. It made him ridiculously nervous and jumpy. He puffed his chest proudly, taking one last look at himself in the mirror, and was off.

 

The door to Ovech’s meet and greet room hissed open at the press of a button.

 

“Thank you for your hospitality while I continue my search for a Captain,” came a female voice.

 

Quinn halted his quick steps. That voice. Panic gripped his heart.

 

“Ah, Commander, I was just briefing Lord Syla, the Emperor’s Wrath,” Ovech said from his desk.

 

She turned then, her golden eyes staring straight into his soul. He took an uneasy step back, then another. He could hear her lightsaber humming to life, feel it slicing through him again and again. She crossed her arms and stared at him uneasily. His blue eyes were darting around the room, trying to focus on anything, but her.

 

“Commander Quinn, please show Madam Wrath some respect,” Ovech intoned.

 

Quinn made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. No words were forming in his mind. Thoughts rushed about trying to find coherence, but none came. He opened his mouth and gulped down as much air as his lungs could hold.

 

“I see you are alive and well, Commander,” Syla said calmly.

 

He took another step back. He couldn’t breathe, his heart was pounding. The room began spinning.

 

“Quinn?” Ovech asked a bit harshly.

 

His face turned red, his eyebrows knitted in pain. He grasped at the space just above his heart and began to fall.

 

“Malavai!” Ovech shouted. “S**t!” He slammed his fist down on the intercom button on his desk. “Get a med unit in here! NOW!”

 

Ovech rushed to Quinn’s side and flipped him to his back. He was trying to breathe, trying to speak, trying to think, but his body refused to respond to his commands. He felt Ovech pumping on his chest, heard his own wheezing. A rib cracked under the pressure. As his vision faded to black and his hearing turned to static he had one thought: she had killed him after all.

 

Ovech continued pumping Quinn’s chest desperately. His panic attacks had never been this bad; usually a stutter or an involuntary shudder, perhaps a lack of eye contact. Sith didn’t mind his reaction to them, it was quite common amongst the normal Imperials. If anything, it made the Sith giddy with excitement at finding an officer still shaking in fear at their mere presence.

 

The medics finally arrived, rushing into the room deploying probes and hasty injections into the man on the ground. Syla watched in silence as the resuscitation probe shocked him. His body arched and fell. It shocked him again and all she could do was stare.

 

“My Lord, please leave the room,” Ovech said in a rush. “I cannot revive him with you in the area!”

 

She resisted the urge to Force slap him across the room and instead left to find Vette. The Twi’lek had happily skipped off with a cute Ensign who regaled her with tales of the onboard Cantina and the finest liquors this side of the Fleet. In truth, she was conflicted. She had liked Quinn. He tended to grow on a person and once you deciphered his odd speech patterns, he was easy to understand and get along with. She flirted with him on occasion, but made it clear to him that she was only having a bit of fun. He didn’t believe her, but he did not argue. She finally turned her attentions elsewhere (much to his relief) when she accepted Lieutenant Pierce aboard. He was a man’s man. A manly man. Not a priss in a well-tailored uniform who cited regulation.

 

They met with Ovech a few hours later in one of the many conference rooms. Vette sank into a chair happily. These were much more comfortable than the ones on the Fury. Maybe their new Captain could requisition seats just like these. It would put him (or her) in Vette’s good graces.

 

“I apologize for Commander Quinn’s condition. He suffers from post-traumatic stress,” Ovech explained. “Too much time on Balmorra, I’d gather. Now, I understand you are here to find a new Captain. I have a list of candidates.”

 

He pulled out his holopad and pressed the screen a few times. The holotransmitter on the conference table hummed to life. A list of names with corresponding faces appeared. Quinn’s name, rank, and face popped up before Ovech made a swiping motion, deleting his entry.

 

“Now, what was your old Captain like?” Ovech asked as he uploaded a few more changes to his list.

 

“Quinn was my old Captain,” Syla stated.

 

Ovech looked up from his holopad. “I beg pardon?” he asked.

 

“Quinn is my former Captain, Major Ovech.”

 

“Why was I not informed of this sooner?” he asked, an edge of anger in his voice. His knowledge of what happened to Quinn had been shaky at best, but he hadn’t needed to know the specifics. Too many rumors were floating around as it was. “You left him in sorry shape when you dumped him on Balmorra,” he said accusingly.

 

She bristled. “He’s lucky to be alive,” she spat angrily.

 

“Alive? That man is dead inside.” Ovech barked a harsh laugh. “Regardless, I will help you find a replacement if only to get you off my ship faster.”

 

“I don’t like your tone, Major,” she hissed.

 

“I don’t much care what you like, Sith,” he hissed back.

 

She glared at him from across the table. He matched her glare unwaveringly. Quinn was a good lot. Whatever he had done, whatever he had said, he must’ve had his reasons. To his surprise, the Sith backed off first. Perhaps she sensed his protective nature or perhaps she felt a little guilty.

 

The meeting continued for several hours with little headway. It didn’t help that she would play a game or two on her holopad while Ovech was describing candidates to her. She was extraordinarily picky (when she was listening) and Ovech had few men who were like Quinn under his command that he was willing to part with.

 

“The only person aboard this ship that meets your requirements to a T is Malavai Quinn and he is not an option,” Ovech said.

 

Syla leaned back in her seat and sighed. She had grown used to a certain type of Captain in Quinn and no other could fill the rather large void he left when she kicked his *** down the Fury’s ramp.

 

“I believe that’s my cue,” Quinn said from the doorway.

 

He stepped into the room with that overdramatic flair she loved so much and resented (but only a little). She could feel his pain and fear echoing through the Force, but he seemed restrained enough (compared to last time, at least) in her presence.

 

“This isn’t up for discussion, Quinn,” Ovech said angrily. “Get back to the med bay.”

 

“No,” Quinn said plainly.

 

“That’s an order, Commander!”

 

“I am no longer under your command, Major Ovech. I just received my transfer papers,” Quinn explained patiently. “Madam Wrath had me reassigned while you were talking.”

 

If looks could kill (well they could, if one was Sith) Ovech would’ve have splattered Syla’s brains all over the conference room then danced in them. She turned to him and grinned a toothy grin. Underhanded Sith! Always taking what they wanted with little regard to whose lives they affected or ended. He growled in frustration. He was impotent to stop the Emperor’s Wrath and he was surely sending Quinn to the slaughter.

 

The Wrath, fully vibed on the despair in the room, patted Ovech’s bald head before leaving with Vette in tow. She ordered Quinn to pack his things and head for the Fury as soon as possible. They had a Sith Lord to kill. Quinn nodded his understanding and bowed shakily. When they were finally alone, Quinn’s barely intact mask shattered. Pale and shaking, he took a seat at the table, burying his face in his hands.

 

“You’re going to die, you know that right?” Ovech asked sternly.

 

“It has crossed my mind, yes,” Quinn answered dully.

 

Ovech studied the hunched man before him. Quinn was a dutiful Imperial to a fault. When ordered to jump, he jumped. When ordered to kill, he killed. When ordered back under the command of an unpredictable Sith Lord, he followed like a nerf to slaughter.

 

“How’s your heart?” Ovech asked gently.

 

“Just palpitations, Major, nothing more,” Quinn replied.

 

“How much medication are you on right now?”

 

“I’m higher than a spicehead.”

 

Ovech needed to get to the meat of the issue and quickly so he could defuse the situation and keep Quinn here, safe, aboard the Dreadnaught. “Why are you going along with this? I can block the transfer on the grounds of you dying a horrible death.”

 

Quinn let out a long exhale. He placed his hands on the table and looked at the Major with calm eyes. “If I cannot overcome this… fear of Sith, I will be useless to the Empire. It is my duty-“

 

“Duty?!” Ovech roared. “You will die under her command!”

 

Quinn stood suddenly, knocking his chair to the floor. “Then so be it! I’d rather die in service than die in hiding!” he yelled emphatically.

 

Ovech was quickly on his feet as well. He slammed his hands down on the table and leaned in. “You have nothing to prove!”

 

“I have everything to prove!” Quinn shouted. “I will not die the sniveling coward who betrayed the Emperor’s Wrath for Darth Baras of all people! I will redeem myself!”

 

Ah, there it was. He sought to redeem himself, even if it meant his death. Ovech straightened his back with a sigh. He regarded the broken man before him. A small glint of determination shined in otherwise dead eyes. Very well.

 

“Go,” Ovech said impatiently. He waved Quinn away.

 

“Goodbye, Major,” Quinn said rather sadly.

 

He stood at attention then departed, leaving a morose Ovech alone in the conference room. Malavai had only one next of kin to notify in the case of his death and that man would know before word reached him of his progeny’s demise. Damn the Sith. Damn the Emperor. Damn the Wrath. Damn Quinn. Damn them all.

Edited by irishfino
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Very nice!! Also, very realistic description of the heart and PTSD issue, as a nurse practitioner and veteran's advocate, I applaud your detail. I already don't like your SW much, but then i'm not supposed to. :)

 

Thank you. I pride myself on getting the little things correct (no matter how heartbreaking). Be cautious, though, Syla might grow on you. She's evil like that.

 

I had to stop reading for a moment, it was very realistic, and hit very close to home. Wonderfully written, I look forward to more!

 

Aw, sorry you had to pause. I had to pause a bit while writing it. Writing what I know, as it were.

 

This is a fantastic direction to take things in. I love it!

 

Also you defused a situation instead of diffusing it, which basically means that as an English stickler driven to despair by too many years on the Internet I am yours forever.

 

When I first read this, I thought I had confused the two, then I realized I hadn't confused the two and you were so happy that I hadn't. LOL.

 

First thread I have officially subscribed to!

 

You're embarrassing me. Teehee.

 

Can I haz more? :D

 

Naturally!!

 

 

I'm so glad you're all enjoying this so much! It warms the cockles of my heart.

 

 

In which Quinn settles in and has an odd conversation...

 

“How are you settling in, Captain?” Ovech’s blue image asked.

 

“Oddly well, Major,” Quinn said calmly. “I’ve set about speaking with each crew member on an individual basis. The ones I was sure would cause the most issues seem to be the most amicable. They still hate me, and with good reason, but they are…”

 

“Nice?”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Quinn scoffed.

 

“I’m glad you’re settling in with few issues,” Ovech said sincerely. “If you ever need to leave, there will always be a spot on my detail for you.”

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, Major. I will contact you next week as scheduled,” Quinn said stiffly.

 

“Until then. Ovech out.”

 

Quinn flipped off his personal comm unit and placed it back on his desk. He had settled in rather quickly and met little resistance, much to his chagrin. Broonmark blorped threats, Pierce avoided him outright, Vette helped Pierce ignore the Captain, Jaesa quietly followed Vette (while taking notes on how to ignore stuck-up prissy pants Captains), Twovee announced he would like to be outfitted with a blaster if only to shoot Quinn in the face (but his fear of a voided warranty kept him dodging Pierce’s efforts to outfit him as such), and Syla was too busy fighting off an ever reviving Lord Draagh to bother with Quinn. He was, in a word, alone. And he hated it. He would rather they spit on him, hit him, curse his name, something. But they remained quiet and avoided him at all costs. They had to be planning something.

 

He set about trying to speak with each member of the crew one on one, which was naturally difficult with them (in Vette’s case literally) jumping over him just to get away. It was torture of the highest variety. A small ship, a handful of people, a giant murdering fur ball (that had yet to murder him), and a seriously angry servant droid, and he was always the only person in a room. He had checked the ship several times for cameras or microphones or any other form of spying device and he found none. How they managed to avoid him, he didn’t know, but he would find out. He just had to corner one of them when they least expected it. Predictable and ungodly nice, Jaesa was the easiest to target.

 

He cornered her in the medical bay one morning while she was meditating. He could feel the light side of the Force swirl around him and it felt… good. For the first time in weeks, he felt calm, at peace, like all was right with the Galaxy.

 

“Hello Captain,” Jaesa said softly as she broke her trance.

 

The sudden jolt from the light leaving ripped a shuddering gasp from him. Jaesa eyed him wearily from her seated position. Quinn straightened his collar and picked an imaginary bit of fluff from his uniform until he gained his composure.

 

“I wanted to speak with each member of the crew personally about my actions aboard the transponder station and those concerning Darth Baras,” Quinn said with practiced ease.

 

“I already know what you did, Captain,” Jaesa said calmly. She rose to her feet and dusted at her robes.

 

He cleared his throat. “Quite. Regardless, I feel the need to explain my actions.”

 

“I don’t care,” she said coldly.

 

The sheer ice in her tone gave him pause. He opened his mouth to speak, but she managed to pull together a piercing glare. He made a strange noise in the back of his throat and took a step back. That look was dangerous in the right hands. Jaesa may have been light side, but she was still under the care of the Emperor’s Wrath. He eyed the double-bladed saber hanging loosely from her hip. It would take her less than three seconds to reach and activate that saber if she so desired. He could only hope she didn’t desire to. Jaesa sighed impatiently, unaware of the Captain’s thoughts. She shoved him aside and made her way to the galley, where the rest of the crew was slowly gathering. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

 

He could hear them laughing. Hear glasses clinking together. Hear hushed, happy chattered. As soon as he turned the corner from the med bay, they went silent. He continued the lonely trek to his quarters, tapping busily on his datapad. He smiled to himself when he heard the crew groan in displeasure as their datapads beeped to life with mission dossiers. At least he could get them to respond to him still, if only when they thought he wasn’t listening.

Edited by irishfino
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Poor Quinn I feel bad for him.:(

 

Why is Syla being a ***** to him if she light side.I can understand dark side but she not the why making sound.:mad: I mean I know Quinn try to kill her but he had reason to do it and Baras is care of dick and lie to him.:mad:

 

Ovech is right about this Syla will end up killing Quinn if he not careful.

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Poor Quinn I feel bad for him.:(

 

Why is Syla being a ***** to him if she light side.I can understand dark side but she not the why making sound.:mad: I mean I know Quinn try to kill her but he had reason to do it and Baras is care of dick and lie to him.:mad:

 

Ovech is right about this Syla will end up killing Quinn if he not careful.

 

Syla is light side, but she is still Sith. She'll explain herself later. Non-violently, of course.

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In which Quinn corners Pierce...

 

The next week passed by with little incident. Pierce continued to avoid him quite expertly for a man his size. Whenever Quinn tried to speak with him and no one else was around, Pierce would brush past him. If others were around he would quickly start up a conversation he knew would take hours to complete or he would go and pester Syla for “another round in the sack”.

 

Quinn was finally able to corner Pierce in the conference room one morning and block the exit, much to Pierce’s dismay. He could easily pick Quinn up, he was, what, a credit seventy-five? Instead, he crossed his arms and waited.

 

“I wanted to speak with each member of the crew personally about my actions aboard the transponder station and those concerning Darth Baras,” Quinn recited.

 

“No need, I understand,” Pierce said gruffly.

 

Quinn must have given him a quizzical expression because Pierce sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes.

 

“Imperial Intelligence ain’t the only ones with access to Castellan restraints, mate,” he explained with a sigh.

 

“That information is highly classified.”

 

“Not highly enough. I knew Cipher Nine before she dropped off radar,” he shrugged.

 

“You knew Cipher Nine?” Quinn asked in astonishment.

 

“Had sex a few times,” Pierce grinned. “Boy, the things they teach those Intelligence girls.”

 

Quinn looked at Pierce with a newfound respect. Not for his having nailed Cipher Nine (though she was quite pretty and he himself would jump at the chance, if only to pick her brain a bit), but for the fact he actually knew anything about Quinn outside of a “stick-up-the-*** killjoy in a grey uniform” (Pierce’s words, not his). Then, suddenly, a thought occurred.

 

“I haven’t told anyone about Baras’ use of my keyword,” Quinn said. Indeed he hadn’t. It was in his file, but that was for the eyes of the Dark Council only. In fact, Baras had to use the keyword only a handful of times before he trusted Quinn enough to carry out his will. Fear of a painful death caused by overuse of the keyword was what drove him most; his loyalty to the Empire came a sad second in his mind. What use what his loyalty if he didn’t have a mind left to be loyal with?

 

“I may have accessed a few files using Syla’s decryption codes a few times,” Pierce said shortly.

 

“How did you-?” he stopped when Pierce gave him a penetrating glance. Quinn snapped his mouth shut. He cleared his throat roughly and continued, “Alright then. That was all I had to say.”

 

“You owe me an apology,” Pierce said coarsely.

 

Quinn opened and closed his mouth several times. Pierce was right, of course. He owed everyone an apology, but getting them to listen to him was an entirely different matter. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and squeezed his eyes shut. He never thought he’d apologize to Pierce for anything. With great reluctance, he straightened his stance and looked Pierce in the eye.

 

“I apologize for compromising the crew with my actions,” he announced hesitantly.

 

Pierce stared down at Quinn for a long moment. That was probably the best he was going to get from the small man under the circumstances. He grunted and waved Quinn off. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being forgiven, even if Pierce understood the reasons behind Quinn’s actions.

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Quinn said sincerely.

 

Pierce merely grunted and pushed passed Quinn. It was the longest conversation he had with anyone on board since being reinstated and it wasn’t filled with death threats. Something began nibbling at the back of his head. Why were they being so… calm about this?

 

***

 

Quinn accessed his personnel file later that evening in the relative privacy of his personal quarters. Curiosity, nothing more, he convinced himself. The file had been recently accessed and edited. Not good. With a measured breath, he opened his file and read the glowing screen.

 

Malavai Quinn, formerly Watcher 27. Removed from Watcher duty at the request of one Darth Baras. Tests show Malavai Quinn’s brain operates at ninety-seven percent capacity. Possible overexposure to SLV-16, Castellan restraints. Subject programmed at early age.

 

Recently transferred back into the care of Lord Syla. Lord Syla has agreed to leave Subject Malavai Quinn intact for study of long term-effects regarding Castellan restraints. Subject is believed to be operating below ninety-seven percent. Main cause appears to be post-traumatic stress from a near death experience involving Lord Syla. Opportunity to study subject’s brain may arise in the near future.

 

Quinn tossed the datapad across the room in disgust. It clattered to the floor, innocently still glowing with information. An unwitting test subject. Darth Baras. Everything in his life circled back to Darth Baras and his damned manipulations. When he didn’t die on the transponder station, Baras contacted him, gloating that no mere Imperial could take down all he had built. Didn’t he know better by now? Foolish boy. Syla would destroy him. Slowly. Baras would enjoy his pain until the day he could strike Quinn down permanently. Personally. Driving his saber through his Imperial skull.

 

The crew. The crew was avoiding him because he wasn’t worth the effort. A cracked Imperial, hyped up on medication to keep him mostly calm who suffered from night terrors and who would soon be dead anyway. Why bother with him? He wasn’t worth their time, their effort, their emotion. He wasn’t worth anything. Not to Baras. Not to Syla. Not to the crew. Not even to himself. Well, if that’s how they wanted to play it fine. No one would get to study his brain if he had anything to do with it. He would die worthless and stay that way.

 

He grabbed his datapad from the floor and began to gather his things. Lord Syla would leave in four minutes for Corellia and he wanted to be there in the thick of things. If he was lucky, he would freeze up and a kindly Sith Lord would chop his useless head from his shoulders. Ninety-seven percent, indeed. He met the crew at the airlock as they waited to depart. He nodded to Lord Syla. He was ready. She flashed him a toothy grin and opened the airlock. Pierce clapped him on the back in a friendly manner, if a bit hard (he refrained from breaking into a coughing fit by sheer will) and the rest of the crew silently accepted him into their ranks. He walked down the docking ramp with grim determination. To battle, Malavai.

 

 

Notes:

 

 

I made Quinn a former Watcher for a few reasons. One, the man is uncommonly smart and doesn't seem to understand humor, much like the Watchers I've encountered on my agent. Two, I've seen at least three different Quinn-alikes around the world: Lt. Quisun on Balmorra, Captain Golah of the Imperial Reclamation Service on Tatooine, and a third who I have yet to encounter again, but I'm quite sure he's on Quesh in an instance (he looks like an evil Quinn, with dark lines and a goatee! So funny). Speaks to the whole eugenics project the Empire has.

 

Edited by irishfino
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Notes:

 

 

I made Quinn a former Watcher for a few reasons. One, the man is uncommonly smart and doesn't seem to understand humor, much like the Watchers I've encountered on my agent. Two, I've seen at least three different Quinn-alikes around the world: Lt. Quisun on Balmorra, Captain Golah of the Imperial Reclamation Service on Tatooine, and a third who I have yet to encounter again, but I'm quite sure he's on Quesh in an instance (he looks like an evil Quinn, with dark lines and a goatee! So funny). Speaks to the whole eugenics project the Empire has.

 

 

Funny, I always wrote Quinn off as a reject from the Watcher breeding program because he doesn't quite measure up to what I see in Intelligence. And the anger management thing plus inability to effectively separate personal and professional goals are major downsides for people who are supposed to be walking computers.

 

But yeah, when I was first dealing with Watcher Two, I thought, I've seen your type before...

 

 

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Funny, I always wrote Quinn off as a reject from the Watcher breeding program because he doesn't quite measure up to what I see in Intelligence. And the anger management thing plus inability to effectively separate personal and professional goals are major downsides for people who are supposed to be walking computers.

 

But yeah, when I was first dealing with Watcher Two, I thought, I've seen your type before...

 

 

He does have anger issues. I don't want to ruin anything, but

the Darth Baras thing will come in to play later.

 

It makes so much sense that he'd be controlled to have done what he did, and the failed watcher line-- brilliant!

 

I think Watchers are bred with sticks shoved in their nethers. Newer generations have them shoved up a bit further.

 

Can I haz moar plz? :D

 

Of course. I just need to re-read what I have (literally just) finished and I'll post it. Stay tuuuuuuuuuuuuuned.

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In which Jaesa invades a dream and Quinn finally sleeps...

 

 

 

Corellia was a confusing tangle of battlegrounds and city streets. He had everything mapped out, naturally, but the nature of war was chaos. His plan of attack was largely ignored, which was why he found himself on his back with a hole in his stomach. It was just as well. He had known they would ignore his plan and, instead, do the exact opposite. He had planned on it. Counted on it. Hoped on it. They could handle the assassins on their own, he was sure of that.

 

Vette let out a victory shout as she shot down another Republic fighter.

 

“Hah, that’s thirteen, Syla! How many you up to?” she hooted happily, firing twin shots at a war droid.

 

“We countin’ droids?” Syla yelled as she flipped into the air and slashed a nearby droid.

 

“If it doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t count!” Jaesa yelled as she finished off a Republic military droid.

 

“Forgot about your weird killing thing,” Syla shouted.

 

“It’s not weird!”

 

“So weird!” Vette teased.

 

“Oi! I’m glad you ladies are bonding over bloodshed. Hot, by the way,” Pierce bellowed. “But we’ve got a medic down over here!”

 

Jaesa looked over her shoulder to where Pierce’s yelling had come from. Quinn was lying on the ground, and, oh dear, there was a lot of blood.

 

“Pierce, switch!” she shouted to him.

 

Vette huffed in annoyance, but laid down suppressive fire while Pierce took up Jaesa’s area for targeting. Jaesa ran to Quinn’s side quickly and knelt next to him. He still had his helmet on; his normally white gloves were stained red with blood as he tried to hold in his internal organs. He had been in this position before, on his back, trying to hold his insides, well, in. It still amazed him how little death actually hurt when one was at the cusp. He vaguely felt Jaesa shaking his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him.

 

“Captain?” she asked the blank screen covering his face.

 

He groaned metallically. Gently, she slipped her fingers under the helmet and tugged it over his head. She set the gray helmet to the side and examined his face. His eyes were closed, his face pale and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, a small bit of blood rested on his lower lip.

 

“Captain?” she asked again.

 

“Don’t worry about me, Miss Jaesa,” he said softly.

 

“You’re bleeding pretty badly.”

 

“Shrapnel,” he stated.

 

“How do I work your healing probes?”

 

“You don’t.”

 

Jaesa stared at him in confusion. He opened his eyes just a tad to look at her. She had seen that look before. That resigned-to-his-fate-I’m-dying look.

 

“You’re just going to give up then?” she asked harshly.

 

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I have no illusions about my status amongst the crew. Even you, Miss Jaesa, rebuffed me as I tried to apologize for my actions.”

 

She hung her head. It wasn’t like her to be so harsh, but the rest of the crew was adamant that she avoid any and all contact with the man for whatever reason. Pierce had been the first one to break that rule, but he broke all the rules and girls should stick together. At least, that’s what Vette said. Quinn closed his eyes and she feared the worst until he started talking again.

 

“I don’t have anything here,” he said, straining with barely suppressed agony. “I’m not worth saving. Complete the mission. Defeat Baras. Get Syla officially recognized as Emperor’s Wrath.”

 

He broke off into a hiss, clutching at his stomach. It was starting to hurt again. Jaesa shook her head at the man on the ground and raised her hands above his wounds. She hadn’t had much training with Force healing, but she had enough to do something, anything. He grabbed her hand to stop her, instead he found himself clutching at her desperately. He didn’t want to die. Not like this.

 

“How do I work your medical probes?” she asked one last time.

 

He exhaled raggedly. “Right wrist. Display will pop up. T-target self. Green… green…”

 

His grip suddenly went lax. She caught his hand before it fell. It felt cold even through the glove.

 

“Captain?” she asked meekly, tugging on his arm. He didn’t respond. She squeezed his hand as hard as her natural strength would allow. Still no response. She channeled a bit of the Force through her hand to his. Nothing. Focusing, she sought his Force signature. It was smaller than usual, but it was there, flickering unsteadily in the dark. She nodded her head in determination. Right wrist, pop-up display, something about targeting and a green… something. She let out a frustrated breath, puffing her bangs from her face.

 

“What’s taking so long over there?” Vette shouted impatiently.

 

“He’s dying!” Jaesa shouted back.

 

Syla paused her attack at that, giving an opening to the droid in front of her. It swung its vibrosword at her head. She Force pushed it halfway down the street then trekked to where Jaesa was hunched over Quinn.

 

“These droids are relentless!” Vette yelled in exasperation.

 

“Quit b*tching and keep shooting,” Pierce shouted from his spot in cover.

 

“Hate you, Pierce!”

 

“Hate you, too, babe!”

 

Syla knelt on the other side of Quinn. Jaesa eyed her wearily.

 

“Let him die,” she hissed at Quinn’s pale face.

 

“But, master-!“ Jaesa started.

 

“No buts!”

 

***

 

Jaesa jolted herself awake. She could hear Vette snoring across the room in her bunk. When sheer force of will didn’t send her back to dreamland, she decided to head to the storage space to make sure Broonmark was resting and not murdering Captain Quinn. Captain Quinn. She felt guilty about ignoring him. That had to be why he had taken the place of their replacement medic during their battles on Corellia. She sighed softly and turned the corner into the cargo bay.

 

Quinn was awake and organizing everything in sight. For the twelfth time. The other crew had long since gone to bed and Broonmark was nowhere in sight. All of them stayed out of his way. He had yet to figure out exactly how (not that it bothered him… much).

 

“Hey,” Jaesa said softly.

 

“Miss Jaesa,” he acknowledged. He continued his inventory of crafting materials, largely ignoring Jaesa’s presence. She softly padded into the room, wrapping her sleep robe around herself a bit tighter. She studied Quinn’s back quietly. His movements were imprecise and jerky. He seemed restless. She moved to a nearby crate to get a better look and sat down.

 

“Can’t sleep?” she asked softly.

 

He stared at her sidelong. “I don’t sleep most nights, Miss Jaesa. If I do sleep, I wake up screaming and alone. It’s not productive. I’m better off awake.”

 

“I had a bad dream myself,” she said as she fidgeted with her hands.

 

Quinn laughed harshly. Jaesa stared at him in surprise. She had never heard him laugh before. It sounded… angry, bitter. Hollow.

 

“You sound like you could use a hug,” she said gently.

 

“What I need is to be left alone,” he said lowly.

 

“It helps to have someone to talk to.”

 

He laughed again, setting down the demicot silk he was folding. He turned to face her, crossed his arms, and leaned his hip against the crate of silk.

 

“I have no one,” he said bitterly. “You’re only here to assuage your guilt from your cold brush off earlier today. Or yesterday.” He tilted his head to the side to calculate the time. He shook his head when nothing added up in a coherent manner.

 

She stared at him uneasily. His stance was strange and oddly… unprofessional. This wasn’t the Captain she was used to.

 

“I have no illusions about my status amongst the crew,” he continued. “To believe I am a treasured member is folly.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jaesa said sincerely.

 

“Quiet,” he spat angrily, turning back to his organizing.

 

“I mean it Captain,” she said softly.

 

Quiet descended quickly. The only sounds echoing through the bay were the sounds of fabric being vigorously folded, shaken out, refolded, repeat. It dulled his senses to focus on one thing, one object at a time. No need to think. Fold, shake out, fold again. Fold, shake out, fold again. Fold, shake out, fold again.

 

“I had a dream you were on Corellia with us,” she said suddenly.

 

He paused his folding briefly. “And?”

 

“You died,” she said morosely. “I tried to figure out your probes, but you wouldn’t tell me how to work them.”

 

“Green button,” he said quietly.

 

“Yes, that’s what… Did you have a similar dream?”

 

He calculated his next move. “I know you were there, Jaesa. Don’t do it again.”

 

“I didn’t mean-“ she started.

 

“Of course you did!” he yelled, turning on her. He reached her in three short steps. “Do not do it again.”

He held her in place with a cold stare. She shivered and averted her eyes from his. He was frightening when he was worked up like this. She had seen him get angry before, when he offed the Moff, but to have it turned on her personally… her blood ran cold.

 

“Now leave me, I need to concentrate,” he said lowly. He didn’t bother to look at her as she scurried from the room. Let her run. Let her run from his reality. At least one of them could get away. Secure in the knowledge that she was finally out of his hair, he continued his obsessive folding and unfolding. The only thing he focused on was the shifting fabric. Nothing else. No dreams. No memories. No guilt over being a bit rude to Jaesa. He should apologize. He tossed the fabric down with a resigned sigh. He had much to apologize for.

 

He left the cargo bay for the one room Jaesa would go when she was in a snit: the medical bay. She had locked the door with her private access code, but, as Captain, he could easily override it. He approached the door, raising his hand to knock politely when he felt it. She was pulling in the light side of the Force as she meditated. He released a shaky breath. It felt good. It was warm and comforting, something he hadn’t felt in so long. He pressed his forehead to the door and inhaled deeply. His thoughts were cleared, his stomach warm. He placed his hand against the door and exhaled. The more contact he had with the door, the calmer he felt.

 

Jaesa was aware of his presence at the door. She felt his small Force signature reach out to her own. She tugged it gently to the warmth of the light. It relented, if only a little, to her persistence. She smiled and he felt it. He felt her smile tingle against his skin.

 

“Jaesa,” he whispered to the door. “I’m sorry…”

 

“I know,” her voice echoed gently in his ears.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He left shortly thereafter to sleep. And he slept. Peacefully. Right through his shift. When he finally woke up, his datapad beeped with a message.

 

Heard you were finally sleeping. Don’t worry, covered your shift.

– Pierce

 

He arched an eyebrow at that. Strange.

 

Notes:

 

 

But, wait! Wasn't Quinn going to Corellia with the group? Yes/no. I'll explain soon, I promise.

 

Edited by irishfino
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Thar was so cute of between Quinn and Jaesa.:)

 

Ok i know u said this but why would Syla leave Quinn to die.:confused: I mean I know Quinn try kill to her but I think she took to far on poor Quinn for light side sith. I think change her being dark if that how she going to conutie with it.

 

Just my oiption don't worry about it.

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Thar was so cute of between Quinn and Jaesa.:)

 

Ok i know u said this but why would Syla leave Quinn to die.:confused: I mean I know Quinn try kill to her but I think she took to far on poor Quinn for light side sith. I think change her being dark if that how she going to conutie with it.

 

Just my oiption don't worry about it.

 

The italic text at the beginning is a dream Jaesa and Quinn shared.

 

Syla did dump nearly dead Quinn on Balmorra and I'll get to why soon (besides the obvious "You stabbed my back, you English pig dog!"). Even the nicest person in the world has a breaking point.

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In which Jaesa invades another dream...

 

 

In dreams like these, death was his only release. It often skirted just out of reach. How could he tell if he was dreaming? He couldn’t, but for the tiny details. The stitching in his gloves, for example. He had stitched and re-stitched them several times; he knew the pattern well. The weight of his modified blaster hung just so in his hands. Little things kept him grounded, but the dreams persisted. The medication given to him by Imperial doctors made him feel sluggish. It made sense to stop taking it. Then the dreams started up again and that decision was beginning to make less and less sense. So he organized. He requisitioned. He busied himself with menial tasks. But the dreams were relentless. He only found peace if he happened to be in the medical bay organizing the supplies when Jaesa was meditating for the day. He noticed she shifted her schedule just so to accommodate him. When he asked her if she had, in fact, shifted her schedule for his benefit, she played an innocent as badly as she postured her love of the dark side when Baras came a-holoing.

 

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Captain,” she said one morning as she prepared herself.

 

He closed a drawer then opened a cabinet. Things were always messy after a jump.

 

“You usually meditate from oh eight hundred to oh nine thirty. After which you join Vette for what I can only assume is a gossip fest over a bowl of Sith Os and a glass of Nerf milk,” he said as he neatly re-stacked gauze.

 

“That’s creepy… and they’re Lightsaber Puffs,” she said softly.

 

“I know what every person on this ship does,” he stated. “I still haven’t figured out how they avoid my presence and how they know I’m trying to find them.”

 

Jaesa chewed her bottom lip. She knew how they avoided him and she knew why (he knew why as well, of course).

 

“I’m not sure either,” she lied horribly.

 

He shook his head at her. “You lie terribly, Miss Jaesa. I wouldn’t recommend a job in Intelligence.”

 

She spat a short laugh before covering her mouth with her hands. He told a joke. Captain Malavai Quinn told a joke!

 

“I’m quite serious. You would be a horrible agent,” he said stoically.

 

He stared at her side long and waited. If not for the subtle crinkling of the corner of his eye, she might have thought him completely serious.

 

“That’s true, I’m no good at seduction,” she giggled.

 

“I could teach you. I’m Intelligence trained and certified in seduction,” he said lowly.

 

She giggled again. He closed the cabinet he was busying himself with and turned to face her. She was sitting on the floor cross legged and staring up at him with those wide brown eyes. He knelt across from her and stared at her. Hard. She looked away and coughed softly. He was so strange. Those blue eyes so calculating and cold.

 

“Don’t look away,” he said softly.

 

He cupped her chin gently in his gloved hand and tilted her head to face him.

 

“You have potential, but your face is far too open,” he explained gently.

 

“How do you close your face?” she asked quietly.

 

“I was born and raised for this, Jaesa.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“The Empire has a eugenics project that is on-going. I am a direct product of the Watcher program,” he said plainly.

 

She didn’t ask what a Watcher was. For all his bluster and emotionlessness she could detect undercurrents of… regret and anger. He must have failed at being a Watcher, though he was bred specifically for it.

 

“So,” she said lowly, “you can teach me how to seduce someone?”

 

He chuckled low in his throat. It was a pleasant sound. She smiled softly.

 

“You know, Jedi aren’t always subtle about things like seduction,” she smiled.

 

He treated her to another short laugh. She wanted more. She leaned forward and closed the gap between them, pressing her lips firmly against his. He chuckled again.

 

“It’s a start,” he said against her lips.

 

She pulled back from him at that, but he leaned forward to keep his lips firmly pressed against hers. He was insistent, but gentle. She threw caution to the wind and pulled the Captain to the floor with her. Time to indulge her passions.

 

 

***

 

 

Quinn woke up with a grunt alone in his bunk. He lifted the sheet covering his waist and sighed. Well, that was another way to wake up from a dream. He thanked the stars for his tiny, personal refresher. As he cleaned up, he was certain that the actual Jaesa had not intruded on his dreams again. He didn’t feel that strange warmth in his head like he had last time.

 

 

Notes:

 

 

Dreams are fun. A little too much fun for some.

That's not funny.

'Tis hilarious.

 

Edited by irishfino
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Scars. They lined his back and front in haphazard patterns. Some were straight as though he were lashed. Others were star burst patterned burns. His torso was covered in them, his back especially. Had she known he would be punished even after her wrath had been taken out on him? After all, she had reported his betrayal and loss of position aboard her ship. He had grown used to soaping over them, their pattern. What they represented: fear, cowardice, weakness.

 

He inhaled the steam the hot water sent spiraling around his stiff form. It settled heavily in his lungs and he enjoyed the feeling. Any feeling. He was awake and alive and could feel pain.

 

Alive. His first few weeks after the transponder station were filled with murmurings of pain. Surgeries, dreams, injections, nightmares. All sources of pain. His first encounter with a Sith lord sent him reeling, nearly pissing himself with cowardice. Then the dreams started in earnest.

 

Ovech was tolerant of his condition, almost fatherly in that regard. Father. His father.

 

“Ninety-seven percent of those bred for the Watcher program fail, Malavai,” said his father’s disembodied voice. “I have no doubts you will succeed and become the baseline for the generation after you.”

 

Ninety-seven percent. Failure. Ninety-seven percent failed. Ninety-seven percent of his brain in use. One hundred percent failure.

 

He left his quarters shortly thereafter dressed in his tailored Imperial greys. They were beginning to fit him again. A few more meals and he would be back to optimum weight. He checked his datapad for the day’s itinerary. Most of the group had gone planet side to gamble on Nar Shaddaa. Only Jaesa remained behind. No reason given. Probably something to do with Jedi, he thought crossly. No matter. He was better off staying in the hanger, bringing the ship back up to code. Or back down to code from the sheer amount of strange modifications. He smiled to himself and grabbed his toolbox. Drowning in work was the best way to drown.

 

 

Notes:

 

 

Most of my information on Watchers is made up. I can't seem to find information on the eugenics program other than it exists and there are computer people with little emotion produced as a by-product.

 

Edited by irishfino
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In which plans are made and names are spoken...

 

 

 

He approached her in the medical bay after a night of particularly rough dreams. He didn’t want to talk. She nearly left him there, alone, the one condition he didn’t want to be. He didn’t argue when she made her excuses and motioned to leave. It must have been his face. Those empty blue eyes staring straight through her at the nothing beyond. She sat down at her usual spot, but she fretted with her hands.

 

“You don’t have to stay, Miss Jaesa,” he said softly. He continued to stare at nothing from his seat on one of the beds. It unnerved her.

 

“I-I’m fine,” she stuttered unconvincingly.

 

“You’re a bad liar,” he said. He turned to her then, turned those horribly unseeing eyes on her. Slowly, his focus pinned her to the spot. She shuddered again.

 

“Did you need something, Mala-“

 

“Don’t!” he said harshly. “Do not call me by my given name. I have not given you the right.” The fire was back in his eyes and her involuntary shivering ceased.

 

“How does one ‘earn the right’, as it were?” she asked softly.

 

Her question gave him pause. Very few had earned the right in his eyes. It had been his maternal grandfather’s name. He had been a proud man, a military man. He was taken in the heat of battle and given a hero’s funeral. Or so he had been told all those years ago. He turned his attentions back to the far wall.

 

“I received a message a few days ago from a man claiming to be my grandfather,” he said softly. “I was told he died decades ago in a firefight. I’ve traced the communication and verified the person behind it.”

 

“And?” she prodded gently.

 

He didn’t say anything for a few, long moments. When he spoke, she jumped in her seat, but managed to stifle a gasp. If he noticed her movements from the corner of his eye, he didn’t comment and she was grateful.

 

“It’s him,” he finished roughly.

 

“Will you go see him?” she asked gently.

 

“No,” he said harshly.

 

“You’re scared.”

 

He turned those cold eyes on her again, but she resisted. He inclined his head slightly. Better. Much better. If she could resist his glares and stiff nature, she would be a valuable asset to his set of friends which consisted of absolutely no one. He hmmed low in his throat.

 

“He’s dying,” Quinn said quietly. “I am to meet with him, but I…”

 

“Don’t want to be alone,” Jaesa said quietly. He turned to face her, his eyes alight with something she couldn’t quite identify. Hope, maybe?

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you… want me to come with you?” she asked hopefully.

 

He nodded. He couldn’t trust his voice to hide the knot he felt rising in his throat. She smiled beautifully at him and he felt himself smiling back. It was a small smile, a hopeful smile, but it was a smile. She stood from her position on the floor and approached his seated form.

 

“I’d be honored to help you through this, Captain,” she said as she stood in front of him.

 

“Malavai,” he said softly, closing his eyes. “You may call me Malavai when we’re alone like this.”

 

She stepped into his personal space, squeezed herself between his legs, and hugged him. He held her tightly, crushing her to him, grasping the back of her robes like a drowning man clings to a bit of wood. She was so warm and soft in his arms. She radiated with gentle energy. The tears sprang forth again and he finally felt safe enough to let them go. His shoulders shook silently, but she held him steady. Running her hands down his back, she comforted him and whispered encouraging things to him. She pulled back from his crushing hug to look at him face-to-face.

 

“When do we depart?” she asked softly.

 

“In the morning,” he said thickly.

 

“What should I pack for the journey?”

 

“Something light. He’s on Tatooine.” A fitting place for an exile.

 

“So… a sundress?” she asked lightly. He couldn’t stop the chuckle that bubbled from his lips.

 

 

 

Notes:

 

 

Dear Writer's Block,

 

...

 

I had a long letter in mind, but I've since forgotten. Poop...

 

Edited by irishfino
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Malavai waited for her just outside the entrance to the spaceport. He was nervous. He hadn’t seen his grandfather in a long time and bringing someone with him might be frowned upon, especially someone he wasn’t romantically involved with. He had asked Barnabus if it was okay to bring someone with him. The much older man had been so bold as to wink at him when asked during a holo call. Malavai grumbled something at him, feeling as if he were a small child again. The older man’s laughter filled his ears and he found himself laughing in return.

 

“Hey, Captain!” Jaesa yelled as she ran to him. “Sorry I’m late. Vette kept trying to make last minute changes to my outfit.”

 

He nodded politely while examining her. She had dressed in the promised sundress, a nice light white dress reaching just barely above her knees. He presented his arm to her and she giggled lightly before taking it. He was so proper. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He placed his opposite hand atop hers. She smiled and looked at him, but he was staring straight ahead unblinkingly. They started toward a small cluster of buildings in Mos Ila proper.

 

“He lives just in town,” Quinn explained stiffly.

 

“Should we bring a gift?” she asked quietly.

 

“I have already sent one ahead,” he replied. “A bottle of wine, if you’re curious. Aged as old as he. I think he’ll get a chuckle out of it.”

 

“That’s sweet of you.”

 

“I assure you, I am anything but.”

 

She smiled as they continued in silence. The building his grandfather was housed in was small, dingy, and covered in sand, but he had made it a home. Pictures, plaques, and paintings lined the sandy walls coming to an end over the small bed Barnabus was currently occupying.

 

“Ah, my boy,” Barnabus greeted happily. “It’s so good to see you after so long! Come, sit with me. And introduce me to your wife.”

 

“She’s not my wife,” Malavai responded stiffly.

 

“Really? Then you picked out such a fine bottle of wine yourself?”

 

“Grandfather,” Malavai sighed, shaking his head.

 

Jaesa quietly watched the exchange with a small smile. She still had her hand in the crook of Quinn’s elbow. She was reluctant to remove it and he didn’t press her to.

 

“Come, come! I want to speak with you!” the older man said happily, nearly jumping out of the bed with excitement. Malavai left Jaesa’s side for a brief moment to grab two chairs. He placed them next to the bed and allowed Jaesa to be seated first. She hid a giggle behind her hands. Barnabus looked at her with kind blue eyes and a face that was much like an older and wrinklier Malavai. She immediately felt at ease.

 

“You still haven’t introduced me!” the older man said with barely restrained enthusiasm.

 

Quinn rolled his eyes. “This is Miss Jaesa Wilsaam, apprentice to the current Emperor’s Wrath Lord Syla.”

 

“Ah, yes! I remember hearing of her exploits on Tatooine those years ago. Accompanied by an Imperial officer, I believe,” Barnabus said happily.

 

“Don’t play dumb, grandfather, it never suited you,” Malavai said stiffly.

 

“Whatever do you mean?” the man asked with mock innocence.

 

Quinn gave a frustrated huff and crossed his arms. His grandfather laughed uproariously. It was a wonder they shared any genetic material.

 

“Yes, yes, I followed you for a while,” Barnabus admitted, laughing. “Couldn’t believe my stealth tech still worked!”

 

Quinn grumbled something and slouched in his seat. Jaesa giggled behind her hand. He was pouting!

 

“You are far too happy for a dying man,” Quinn grumbled unhappily.

 

His grandfather sobered at that.

 

“You’re not really dying, are you?” Jaesa asked softly.

 

Barnabus turned his gentle blue eyes on her and smiled sadly. He nodded once then leaned back against the headboard of his bed.

 

“I led a very lonely life after everything was said and done,” Barnabus said quietly. “I am finally on the edge of release only to finally come face-to-face with my grandson.” He gave Quinn a hard stare and the younger man had the decency to look ashamed. “Of course I’m going to be happy.”

 

“Forgive me, grandfather,” Quinn said quietly.

 

Barnabus fixed him with a warm smile and Quinn began to unwind. He uncrossed his arms and sat up a little straighter.

 

“Now, Miss Wilsaam, tell me of your intentions with me grandson,” he said lightly.

 

Quinn began sputtering and Jaesa laughed outright. His grandfather was utterly amusing.

 

“My intentions are pure, I assure you,” she said with mock formality.

 

“Then I do not approve,” the older man laughed. Jaesa’s melodious laughter mingled with his in the small room, filling it with a joy that had not been seen in years.

 

“Grandfather!” Quinn sputtered, scandalized. Jaesa and Barnabus laughed harder, clutching their sides with merriment.

 

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it, Malavai!” the older man chuckled, slapping his legs with mirth.

 

“You’re as horrible as I remember,” Malavai pouted, crossing his arms.

 

“And you’re still that abnormally stiff child,” Barnabus chided gently.

 

“What was Captain Quinn like as a child?” Jaesa asked softly.

 

“You call him ‘Captain Quinn’?” Barnabus asked her seriously.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Malavai, you’re courting this young woman terribly,” Barnabus scolded.

 

“I am not courting her,” Malavai said gruffly.

 

“You should, she’s awfully adorable,” the older man said lightly. Jaesa smile prettily. “And she has good child-bearing hips,” he finished in a stage whisper.

 

Jaesa blushed charmingly and averted her eyes while Quinn grumbled next to her.

 

“See, adorable!” Barnabus announced happily.

 

“Grandfather, please,” Quinn murmured. His cheeks were beginning to turn a light pink at the older man’s insistence that he was courting or should court Jaesa.

 

“Very well,” Barnabus sighed dramatically.

 

Barnabus didn’t let up on his light teasing throughout their visit and he made no apologies for it. Quinn took it in stride having realized that this may very well be the last time he saw the man alive. Jaesa sensed the change in his demeanor and laid a gentle hand atop his while still conversing animatedly with Barnabus. He smiled and cupped her fingers in the palm his hand. She gave a light squeeze and they both ignored Barnabus’ knowing look. Not courting her, his face mole.

 

 

Notes:

 

Oh, Barnabus, you peer-pressure machine you. Barnabus is first introduced in this short.

 

Edited by irishfino
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