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jackiequick · 4 months

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Iceman. Ice cold, no mistake and—wait he has a kid?! | Top Gun Fanfic ❄️

Summary: The day people find out about Iceman’s private life would be the day he makes sure, he knows it firsthand. In other words, Tom Kazansky meets his future wife the day his fellow pilot finds out about his daughter.

Established father daughter relationship: Iceman & Skysolo

Pairing: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x Hazel "Daredevil" Quinn

Note: Pre-Top Gun Maverick, so Amber Kazansky is around 5-7 years old

——

There were many things Iceman was, or least how he presented himself to people. Strong, levelheaded, flies ice cold and no mistake if he had a say in it.

Some people were honest a bit scared of the man, might even idolized him, and even rather intimidated to say the least due to his looks.

Yeah sure he was rather layback and chill, cracking a few wisecracking jokes with his teammates and family. Swearing his cheeky smile with pride. Ask Maverick or Slider, they’ll tell ya the truth to that showing smile.

But one thing that Iceman made sure was to keep his private life separate from his aviation one. At home, he was just Tom. Tom Kazansky.

And there is a reason why.

His daughter.

Amber Nic Kazansky.

His angelcake, his little snowball, and his reason to keep fighting. His angel eyes. He kept her private from the public eye, safe and sound in his arms. Mentioning his kid every once in a while at work but people always assumed he was talking about Maverick’s kids or Goose’s son.

Because he was considered their uncle, to everyone on base.

But they don’t ever assume his own. He didn’t blame them, he never specifically said his daughter name out loud to the masses to hear. Only his close family and friends knew about Amber’s existence. She was one of Maverick’s sweethearts afterwards and Slider’s little glamorous girl.

And if ever did his angel eyes to work, he made sure she never left his sight. It was a big place, she could get lost however Amber was smart enough to know her way around the base too, even if Tom liked it or not…

Such as today.

Tom wasn’t supposed to have work that weekend, it was Sunday for gods sake but his bosses had other plans for the Lieutenant Commander. He was called in to finalize some paperwork, check on installations and probably head to some meetings. Which meant he would be stuck in his office for most of the day.

Tom sighed, knowing he had no choice but to bring Amber with him due to Maverick being busy and his sister being in another freaking state. However he didn’t mind the company, since he was able to show his daughter the planes, possibly getting to see a familiar face such as Wraith or Hollywood, look at the frames on the wall and the view of the building from where they were standing.

And to be honest, Amber loved it. She was shy about it all but she couldn’t help but grin. Her eyes sparkled at the huge planes, the classrooms filled with aviators, the darling style of the technology they had and clean cut frame of the building.

Tom stayed in his office playing the radio and doing paperwork with Amber by his side sitting in the blue beanbag beside from desk. Even though Tom was working, he pauses writing on a form hearing his 7 year old curls bounce as she sang one of the songs on the radio as she played with her Barbie dolls.

“And here we go, we know the start, we know the end!” She sang, brushing her doll’s hair with such passion, “Masters of the scene. We’ve done it all before and now we’re back to get some more..”

“You know what i mean.” Tom sang along softly, twirling his pen in between his finger grinning, “Voulez-Vous!”

One thing was sure was how much she loved singing ABBA’s popular songs when it came on the radio. She definitely got it from her aunts and uncles, he can’t blame her. When music like that starts playing it becomes contagious, where you just have to sing along.

Amber stood up from her beanbag chair and started to twirl around, dancing holding out a hand for Ice to take. He hesitated cause he was at work but he shrugged, removing himself from his seat taking his daughter’s hand and twirl her around. Her infectious laugh and cheeky grin matched her father’s gracefully.

The two of them, dancing until the song was over and radio played Dolly Parton’s 9 To 5. Tom returned back to his desk, twirling the pen back in his hand chuckling. Meanwhile Amber went to grab the grapes that were packed in her bag as she sat down and ate, looking out the window at the planes.

———

A few short hours later, Slider walked in greeting his niece and best friends, sitting down to talk with Ice over the planes they would flying next weekend. Amber was finally starting to get bored and begging her father to walk around the base with him. She wanted to spend time with him or her uncles to explore for a while, instead of being laying around in an office.

Slider noticed the look on his niece’s face and said, “Oh come Tom, it’s just a little walk to see the other side of base. I know your overprotective but cut the baby some slack.”

“Ron. I know that, she’s been here before she could walk but what if she gets lost, huh? Half of people don’t even know about her.” Tom explained, with a sigh.

“She’ll be fine! Won’t you, baby?”

“Slider!”

“Ice! We’ll have fun, right babygirl?”

Amber smiles, “Yeah! Daddy pleaseeee! I will be careful.”

With a sigh, he nodded and replied, “Alright. Okay, you can go and explore the base but be careful. I don’t want you getting lost or get both of you and your uncles in trouble.”

“No promises. They are a bunch of cowboys like you said.”

“Clever girl. And watch your tone.”

Slider chuckled taking his niece’s hand and teased his best friend on how they’re gonna cause some trouble. Probably even bring Goose and Mav along for the ride. Ice just rolled his eyes and chuckled at them.

Ron knew that his niece was very important to his pilot’s life and understood why he’s been overprotective of her since day one. He was a single father, yeah sure their friends were there too but Tom was the main caretaker of his daughter’s life. Of course he wanted her safe and sound wherever she is. It was also a private part of his life, that he wanted to maintain calm and not go off the rails.

But like everything, change happens and surprises come along the way. Weather he liked it or not.

He was talking to Hollywood when it did, keeping Amber close by the tarmac of the planes. Hollywood was kneeling down to the girls height, letting her play with his helmet in the meantime.

Both men were chatting about the way the newer pilots almost got jet washed during training session a couple of days ago and how they needed to tweak the planes safety alerts. Amber was holding Hollywood’s helmet and enjoying the colors when something caught her eye. More like someone.

On the tarmac, drew out a nice sliver dollar plane as if someone just gotten off the skies and landed on the ground. She caught wind of the small wave of damage the plane got on the edges but the man—no women, since she removed her helmet, who step out of cockpit, climbing out of the darn thing had some trouble finding grin on her.

She didn’t know if to be impressed or intimidated by her.

Dark locks like her uncle Mav, a dark olive green jumpsuit like all the other aviators and attention grabbing attitude towards the person she was talking to. Amber didn’t get a good look at her face though. So in her brain, she couldn’t if she was good news or not.

She was taken out of her gaze, following her uncle Slider and Hollywood inside still holding the helmet. Slider was called by Viper for something real quick, leaving her with Hollywood. Amber got a bit annoyed at that, she wanted to explore but she got stuck sitting on a bench instead.

It was half bad, due to her and Hollywood talking about the latest movie she saw.

Since her dad and uncles took her, Bradley, Austin, Jenny and Dane to see a rereleased of The Empire Strikes Back. The kids haven’t seen those movies yet, so it was their first time. But Hollywood couldn’t go cause he was too busy so he couldn’t, instead Wolfman went taking his place.

“And then Luke fought Darth Vader! Austin screamed saying he could do it better than him. And I said ‘no you can’t!’ but he didn’t believe me.” Amber exclaimed with a laugh, “Why did Leia kiss Luke then Han in the movie?”

Hollywood chuckled at her enthusiasm for the movie and repiled, “Well he did to prove a point to Han. But you kids will have to watch the next one to find out what happens. Did your Aunt Carole or Drey took you to see The Little Mermaid yet?”

“No! They said we gotta wait for they can buy it and we can watch it at home. But I wanna see it.”

“How about I see if I can get Drey to change her mind? How does that sound? She owes me a date anyway.”

Amber giggled at that and nodded, suddenly she had to use the restroom and Hollywood pointed to go down the hallway, next to the double doors. He watched her from where he was standing, smiling.

———

After she used the restroom, Amber noticed that Hollywood wasn’t there anymore but on the other end of the hallway talking with Wolfman. She rolled her eyes and grunted, rushing her with a glare to Hollywood.

“Hey! You said you’d wait for me.” Yelled Amber, tugging at his pant leg with a glare that similar to Iceman.

Expect that glare had a hint of fire within them, like there was smoke behind the ice cold blocks. Wolfman noticed it and would’ve chuckled if he wasn’t a bit confused about Amber being here. He was sure he saw her walking with Slider earlier.

“I’m sorry, kiddo! I got caught up with Wolf, he will telling me something important.” Hollywood apologize, for his mistake but he still saw the glares.

He noticed Amber walking away, her temper and annoyance getting the best of her. All she wanted was a small walk around the base with someone like her aunts or uncles but they were more or less distracted with work. She couldn’t even blame them for being caught up with work but she was smart enough to know she deserves some attention and respect.

Hollywood and Wolfman chased after the 7 year old, as her blonde locks bounced across the hallways of the base finding herself in the wonders of the building. She pushed her bangs past her eyes, popped up her collar of her jacket.

A few mutters and mumbles could be heard of people asking who’s child was that around the corner, as she stopped in front of the rows of pictures frames displaying days of older class photos. From 1960s to now. She blocked out the whole noise of officers, captains, commanders and even some lingering lieutenants who walked past her.

She saw a few pictures frames of planes her favorite was the Tomcat due to the display of grays and or blues, speaking volumes of the way it swords the skies and classic modeling that carried two passengers. She knows her uncle Mav had small miniature replicas near the speakers at his house, telling the kids to not play with them.

She wasn’t one to absolutely desire the trill of piloting one of those lovely things. But she wouldn’t mind being in the backseat of one, watching them go fast and the high from being in the clouds. Hell, her uncle Merlin and Maverick took her in one of those for a quick joy ride before her surprise birthday party last year. They were only off the ground for a few minutes, nothing special but it was fun.

Amber sighed, smiling softy at the pictures wishing she wasn’t alone but with her uncles. Like Merlin, Maverick, Slider or even her uncle Buzz. But then again, she did run away from them and they were busy.

She heard a loud, “Kazansky!” as she wiped her head around to see Jester and Stinger talking probably searching for her father.

As one of their fellow members, said that he was in his office and heading to a meeting.

She even heard Cain’s voice yelling “Maverick! Kazansky better get say something good about you and Merlin’s flying today or so god help me!”

She was rather shy but curious, when it came to things like this. Her uncle Mav always got into trouble for his interesting, in color words to say the least, flying skills. She winced hearing the yelling of her last name and others across the hall, as you can hear plenty muffled noises in between. Amber didn’t like it, so she glanced at the pictures once again, this time being of the 86’ class and ran finding herself outside of a briefing room.

She knew the room she stood outside of, being the same one her dad’s higher rank, Viper, taught the 86’ class in. Well it was very much similar, at least. She stood on her tippy toes at the window, looking inside to find it empty inside but the door easily locked.

It was across the small hallway her father would possibly be having his meeting in. Amber instead of boring herself, she found herself wondering outside the window playing with one of the tiny toy Blackbird plane, she had in her pocket that she took her father’s desk at home and placed it against the glass window pretending to fly it.

She giggled to herself softly using imagination and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Officer Kazansky speaking. I will be showing here the flight manners, I liked to call a barrel roll. And if you’re lucky, you can surprise the other pilots with this one by sneaking up on them.”

Little did she know, some female works were walking past her and listening giggling catching onto her last name. Some were confused even shocked, plenty around it adorable and others were jealous thinking that Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky was secretly taken if that was really his kid.

——

Just as Ice was about to enter his meeting with Jester, Cain and Stinger to explain his wingman actions up in the sky, Slider went rushing in as as Maverick was about to head inside.

“H-HEY! I-Ice, we got a little—” Slider began to explain what he heard from Hollywood and Wolfman, but was surely cut off.

“Where’s my kid?” Tom asked, looking over his shoulder and around for his daughter.

“I was just about to get to that. Long story short, I left her with Holly for a while and when I came back, he and Wolf said she was gone.”

“Gone or ran? Amber ain’t gonna run out unless something happened.”

Maverick cut in, “Wait! Amber’s here?! In the building?! Slider what’s wrong with you?”

“Hey! It wasn’t my fault Viper called me earlier into his office, so I left her with the guys! They said she ran from them as the two started to chase her down." Slider said, telling the shorter pilot.

“Find her! I don’t care about myself right now, I’ll take the heat like always but Jester would be more mad that you guys left a child unattended in the building.”

Tom shared a look with his wingman, something both him and Mav knew all too well, the panic, fear and annoyance at the thought of their children missing. Slider or some of their friends didn’t get it yet, since not all of them were parents but they had nieces and nephews. Slider was of course one step ahead of them, saying that he already sent some of the guys to go search the blonde.

Maverick gave Ice a soft smile, “Hey. They’ll find her, if not we’re leave the meeting early and get her ourselves.”

Tom’s eyes were turning ice cold with a glare that somewhat soften at his words nodding, then entered the meeting quietly. Iceman being too quiet wasn’t a good thing for anyone, it meant his mind was racing around with throughs to rush out and resume work for another day. But had to stay focused, he knew Slider and the others were on the case. Maverick was frustrated by it all, yelling for Merlin who walked past by to see if he saw Amber, who shock his head but went searching for her…

———

The girl in question was walking around the base, passing a few short notice offices and lounges to find not many familiar faces. She was getting shyer and slightly curious as the moments went on, regardless she knew she got herself in trouble by running away. Amber eventually stumbled upon an office that brought a soft smile to her face. She gently knocked on the door, fixing her jacket and holding her plane in one hand.

It open to reveal the man who this office belong to brown mustache, deep brown eyes and tipped baseball cap staring at her. Mike MetCalf, Viper, looked down at her blinking twice at her small figure. He heard a few of his 86’ class rushing across the building yelling and shouting softly a few words, as it clicked in his head. They was looking for her.

He kneeling down in front of her, noticing the same deep look as her father, covered with blushing tears as if she was trying not to shed any. He put a hand on her shoulder, “Amber, sweetheart. What happened?”

“I..I ran away..fr-from..from Hollywood and Wolfy..” She replied with a small voice, a soft glare trying to keep her tears from falling.

“That’s wasn’t the right move and you know it. I don’t know why you did it but you weren’t supposed to that..”

“I know…”

“Come on.”

He takes her hand, leading her inside his office as he lead her to the counter against the wall near the window. He told her to stay there, as he was in middle of a conversation with an pilot at the moment. She looked up at the pilot, Viper mentioned, as she titled her head remembering the dark hair women from eariler. This time, she saw her face.

She was looking right at her.

Her rather soft features combined with rich one such as the woman’s nose and eyebrows that curled in a way as if she was analyzing the situation. There was something about this women that made Amber not know if she would be scared or shy about her, as she looked away from the brunette.

Viper noticed the looks and said, “Amber Nic Kazansky, meet Hazel Quinn. One of our pilots here, she’s been here before months ago but transferred recently to hopeful longer stay.”

This time the women—Hazel, looked at Amber with a slight difference, analysis of her state with soften concern and worry for the young girl. Hazel looked at Amber, twisting in her chair and standing up to sit beside the little girl. She noticed her glares, her last name ringed bell. Iceman. Flies ice cold, no mistakes.

She never met the man or even seen pictures but heard about him. If though he never met him, she can see the results of his child from the blonde hair to the eyes. But there was a sweetness that Hazel read to her face, a loving and gentle pace to the girl. A doll that needed to be protected. She can only imagine what made this girl run away but she might have an idea coming from a family who lend their lives to the military herself.

Hazel smiled softly, “Hi.”

“Hey..” replied Amber, looking up at the women.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah I’m fine…how about you?”

“I’m alright but you don’t seem like your fine.”

“I’m fine..”

“…look, I guess you don’t want to tell me what happened cause we just met. But whatever it is, you should at least tell someone. They will try to understand.”

Amber stayed silent, her smoking glares still knees deep she wanted to say something like a witty comeback or a rude interception of her works but she didn’t.

Hazel contained her obvious observations and continued, “Okay I’ll humor you. I bet that you wanted to spend time together with your father or uncles but they got too busy, playing hand off with you instead? You wanted some kind of respect and attention today but didn’t get it or know to tell your guardian at the moment about it.”

That seemed to soften Amber up, as she looked over her shoulder and nodded, she left like she wasn’t exactly scared around this women but somehow understood and willing to listen. I guess what they say is true, sometimes a complete stranger can be the easiest person to talk to than anyone else closer to you? Huh? Hazel watched her, waited for her to say something as she noticed Amber tuned to face better and explain.

She told her, everything about how she wanted to spend time walking around the base and explore with her family members but she really secretly wanted was some more moments with her dad. But she understood he was busy today, since he originally wasn’t supposed to come into work at all for that matter. Amber couldn’t blame him and didn’t even bother to say anything but it sounded like she was annoyed with that fact herself. She knew Viper was listening, as she watched her in a way he looked at his own children and godson.

Hazel wanted to give this little lady a hug because she knew that feeling all too well herself, wanting to spend time with her parents but they were busy sometimes with military assistance. But she could tell from how Amber spoke of her father, she loved him very much and wasn’t even mad at his efforts, as if she knew she will get her attention soon enough.

————

And she was right. Because less than a half a second later, you could 8 rushing footsteps and yelling of 4 men, possibly even 5 at Viper’s doorstep.

“Amber!” Yelled the voice. As the girls turned around to see Tom Kazansky—no, Iceman, standing there with his hand on the doorknob with a mix of anger, worry and deep questions laced across his face. He continued, “Sweetheart what were—”

“I’mma stop you right there, flyboy.” Said the only female voice in the room, being Hazel, who stood up from the couch facing Iceman with a hand hovering his chest to pause him.

It was as if the room fell silent for a millisecond.

This brunette just stop Tom Kazansky in his tracks. The Iceman. Hollywood and Wolfman were just outside the door, as you only heard a small sniff or murmured noise coming from there. Wolfman blinked confused then recognize the voice, knowing who she was.

She was like a female Maverick but with a strong levelheaded voice, dark humor and a wildly competitive side to boot.

Princess Leia but in aviator form in simpler words.

Slider cough slightly, standing there awkwardly entering the room to check up on Amber’s current state that matched his own. They were both staring at Daredevil and Iceman, who just locked eye on another.

Tom’s ice cold glares that tend to be laced with deep fried anger watching all the angles in the room, locked eyes with the brunette. She was breathtaking. Stunning in every way possible due to the way she challenged him at the moment.

From her short brown hair with feather bangs that almost fell over eyesight that she didn’t even bother to fix. Rich blue eyes. Craved out cheekbones that enchanted her beauty. Along with the nude, almost red lip that she carried added to her frame.

It took a moment for Ice to contain his combating composure and focus on the task at hand. But dear god was this women gorgeous in his eyes!

Tom cleared his throat, scoffed with a slight chuckled and said, “I’m sorry, who might you be?”

She crossed her arms, with a light smile pointed across her face with a stance and replied, “Hazel ‘Daredevil’ Quinn. One of your new Lieutenant Commanders, sir. I’m assuming that she’s your daughter?”

“Yeah, ma’am, she is. I apologize if she intercepted your and Viper’s conversation earlier. She almost gave me a scare..”

She scoffed, “Some father. Shouldn’t you have been looking after her? Look, she told me what happened and how she felt. I don’t blame you for anything but maybe take a few minutes to listen to her next time.”

He raised a eyebrow, “Look, I would’ve been keeping an eye on her but I unfortunately got caught up with work, so I entrusted her with my friends and she got away from them. I messed up and so did they, i take full accountability for what happened today. None of this was supposed to happen but I’m more worried about her right now.”

Hazel took one a look over her shoulder at Amber, as Tom followed her gaze with a sigh already telling by his daughter eyes that she was a bit down in the dumps. He kneeled down in front of her, put a gentle hand on her cheek meeting her baby blues and asking her tell him what happened in a calmer tone this time. Hazel sat beside her, listening to what she told her.

Tom sighed lowering his head as he listened to his daughter’s words and shook his head, not catching on the small signs that she wasn’t enjoying her day, he apologized greatly for it. His first job was father, pilot second. He knew that, it’s why he tried to keep his private life separate from this base but here he was in Viper’s office listening to his baby girl thoughts.

Sometimes he forgets what’s it like to be a child and feel unheard or not wanting to bother adults with your own business.

Amber pushed back her bangs and lowered her eyes, before looking up at her father and said, “…I’m sorry, daddy..i know I shouldn’t have ran away but i wanted to see the base with you..but everyone was busy or talking with other people…it felt like Hollywood forgot about me..”

“Honey, why didn’t you come back to my office or at least, find your uncle Mav to tell us how you were feeling?” Tom asked, with a soft tone that sounded almost like a whisper, nothing like the pilot people are used to hearing.

“You were handling a lot of paperwork and i heard Jester call your name..and I didn’t like it..and uh, you were about to go into a meeting. I didn’t want to interrupt you..”

“And you through because i was about to head to a meeting to bail out your uncle Mav, I wasn’t gonna have time to talk with you? Baby, as busy or annoyed as i can get, i will always make time for you. I’m sorry you thought running around base was the best option…oh..all you wanted was a little bit of attention, didn’t you?”

She just nodded at that. She must’ve sounded selfish or brash, wanting some attention than it seemed like she already had. Hell, due to her lack of communication she had 5 men searching for her.

“Amber, honey, you’re still so young and you won’t get it now but when you’re older you will. I didn’t want to stuck in my office all day, it wasn’t even my intention to make you feel that way either. If it was up to me, i would’ve been taking you flying or have you see a new selection of planes we have gotten this month but my schedule said otherwise. When you’re old enough you will understand what i mean. I should’ve went with you and gave you my full attention instead of having you hang out with your uncle Slider.”

Slider intercepted with a light mocking gasp, “Hey! I was a nice babysitter.”

“You lost her, you idiot.” Tom commented.

“Blame Hollywood and Wolfe for that last part.”

“Yeah, sure, buddy. We will.”

Wolfman and Hollywood scoffed hearing that part but nodded, since they did take a part in losing the young blonde. The duo walked in apologizing for their mistakes, as Wolf even ruffled Amber’s hair in efforts to make her crack a smile. And to his efforts, it worked.

Hazel leaned backwards in her sat and whisper softly to the young blonde, “Well now you got all the guys fondling over you, sweetie. Feel a little better?”

Amber nodded and wrapped her arms around Tom’s neck as he picked her up, embracing his little angels warmth not wanting to let her go. He humming softly asking, “Angel eyes?”

“Hm?” Amber responded, rubbing her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can you forgive me?”

“Well, daddy, can you forgive me?”

He chuckled nodding, “Yeah I can. I’m still a bit mad that you ran instead of coming to me first but yeah, of course I forgive you.”

She smiled at that, “I forgive you daddy..how much longer do you have to go your meeting?”

“I cut my meeting with Cain short because I had to go searching for you. But I have another one in two hours, after that I’m all yours.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Stinger understood but Jester was a little annoyed, but I think I got off the hook. And I think you need to apologize for giving Maverick and the rest of the boys a scare too, baby.”

She nodded hearing the last part, knowing she needed to do that at some point. Tom put her down on the floor, thanking Viper for keeping her in his office for the time being as the older man told him he didn’t mind it one bit. Slider was already walking walking the boys out of the office, leaving the father daughter duo and a certain someone left. Hazel was running her fingers crossed her hair, with a soft smile leading against the couch hearing them talk softly to another one prideful she was able to help.

However just as she about to continue her conversation with Mike, the two blondes turned to her. Amber thanked her firsthand, hoping to see her around more often if she gets a chance to visit the base once again and went to stand in the doorway waiting for her father.

As she stood in the doorframe of Viper’s office, she noticed something on both adults faces. Mainly because the fog cleared now for her. She would’ve giggled and cleared her throat but she was more than curious to see where this goes. Mike was standing beside her, giving the girl a small wink as he looked over his shoulder to see Maverick coming their way.

Tom cleared his throat and grinned, “Uh, thank you back there.”

“For what?” Hazel asked, with a sly smile.

“Knocking some sense into me. I wasn’t thinking straight at all, usually I’m more grounded than this.”

“So I heard. I heard of your reputation, but I never expected the whole father thing.”

“Yeah well, it’s something I don’t expect everyone to know. I have my reasons to keep my private life separated from my aviation one.”

“I get it.”

“Yeah?”

“I do. With a darling girl like that, I can see why you want to keep her safe. She’s a good girl, you got lucky.”

“I think so too. And she seems to have taken a liking to you.”

“I guess so. Uh, I’ll see you around, Iceman?”

“Most certainly, Daredevil.”

Amber rolled her eyes at her father not being as smooth as he would be and chuckled, “Ask for her number, daddy.”

All adults laughed at her comments and rolled their eyes, seeing how forwarded she was being today. To be fair, after the world-wind of a day Tom had his head wasn’t screwed on straight, so missed a stepped at being a flirt with his fellow pilots.

He gave his daughter a pointed look and chuckled, “I was just getting to that, sweetheart.” He continued looking at the brunette with his signature smile and added, “Can I have your number, beautiful?”

Hazel chuckled doubling over with a hand on her chest, still taking in the young girl’s forwardness as if it was the most obvious answer. It took her a moment before she replied with a darling smile, biting her bottom lip, “Yes. Yes you may.”

Without a second later, Hazel ripped a piece a index card from Viper’s desk and wrote down her number, handing it to Tom who grinned thanking her. The two talked for another half minute about whatever nonsense that came to mind, with a mention of a date next Friday if they’re both available and then some. Viper chuckled clearing his throat, as much as he loved seeing two pilots creating a connection, he knew time is money and he had meetings to get to today.

Both the blonde and brunette nodding grinning as Ice took his daughter’s hand and once again thanked Viper, allowing him to return to his previous meetings Daredevil earlier. Hazel waved at the two blondes and took a seat once again where she sat originally.

———

As one could imagine, the rest of the day went as follows, Ice went to his final meeting of the day with Amber this time right beside him. She didn’t mind it all, rather enjoyed being in the room with all the high ranking people and the view of the office in general. Maverick intercepted the meeting to check up on his niece and wingman, glad to see two of favorite people in the building alright and well. Stinger glared at the short pilot twice and pointed for him to exit the door as soon as possible.

Once it over, the father daughter packed it up leaving the offices and headed to the tarmac to watch the planes in the air. Since he always carried an extra pair of sunglasses, he slipped the another one in her hand as she gladly put them on.

Tom scooped up Amber, pointing out the fliers pulling the moves then landing from the safe zone. There were moments of comfortable silence between the two of them and others of them suggesting what else they should do that day.

“How about McDonald’s?” Amber asked, as her father placed her once again on the ground.

He thought for a moment, considering the opinions of today’s action and shook his head, “Sorry, angel eyes. Not today, maybe some other time.”

“It’s okay. I understand..I’m sorry again daddy for running off.”

“I know you are sweetie and I just hope next time you know not to do something like that again.”

“Yes daddy. So no McDonald’s?”

“Nope. We have food at home, but we can past McDonald’s on the drive.”

Tom smirked watching her face, as her mouth opened for a moment then shut pouting. Seeing that it would furrow her brown and having her nose snitch up at that rather rude idea. He knew it was a little mean act, but it was something his grandfather did to him as a small punishment and to see if the fast food restaurant was really worth it.

After a moment, her face returned back to normal as she let out a dramatic sigh and nodded knowing it was somewhat fair trick to play on her. She even let out a smile, following her father out away from the tarmac and into the parking lot.

The drive home was pretty okay, since the music that played on the radio allowed for a gentle sound to release whatever negative thoughts and feelings from across the day, as they went out the window. And yes, they did past by McDonald’s on their way home.

Once they got home, both ate something and showered early, that’s when Tom had the actual talk he said he was going to do earlier that day. Not to get into any heavy detail, it a long 20 minutes of Tom’s eyes almost shifting to his Iceman persona every few minutes at how his emotions sorta bottled up in him while scolding Amber.

He didn’t scream or yell, keeping his voice neutral the whole time.

Telling how that what she did was very reckless, irresponsible, that it a worrisome situation on his part and she literally made a down right stupid decision. Saying something worse could’ve happened if she wasn’t careful. He gave his two sense on the matter and explained to her all the possibilities of what might’ve went wrong today. Things she could’ve done instead and so forth.

Amber tear up hearing her father and just nodded listening to him. He said that he understood why she did it, she felt annoyed and unheard. Plus, she’s a kid, so she doesn’t know any better than to just run away from the issue and stay in her thoughts. However he does say that he felt good that she realized what she did wrong and went back to find an adult.

Yes, he rather it was him but he really liked the fact that she at least went to Viper’s office. Because it was a trusted friend and honorary member of the family.

Due to Tom sitting on the couch with her as he talked, he rubbed her shoulder and handed her a tissue to wipe away those tears that rolled down her cheeks. Apologizing as well for his decisions and own actions today, knowing he messed up on his part since he should’ve stayed with her the whole entire time, instead of leaving her with Slider and the older pilots.

That he should’ve read the signs and taken time to give her his full attention or something. Amber didn’t blame him, as she given her moments to speak her mind as well onto her own feelings. She promised to not try to run away again and go to him if she feels some certain way. She asked if it possible to go flying like old times and he replied that one day they can. Telling her how he will definitely try his best to make time for her, listen to her own thoughts better and keep himself as in the loop as possible.

He gave her a squeeze and a kiss on her cheek, as the two stayed there just talking about punishments, the rules for the rest of the week and exceptions to be set soon. She leaned into his touch and nodded hearing him talking, to be honest even though he was telling her no tv for a week and among other things, his voice was rather relaxing. Hushing her worries about a few things as she softly smile.

Overall the afternoon went well, a few shed tears and a couple of moments just to hear the other person out was exactly what was needed.

——

That’s what I got for the first fic of the year (this was supposed to come out last year but shhh 🤫). I hope y’all like it.

Tell me what did you think about it in the comments below. Remember to like, share and reblog!

Tags: @rooster-84 @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @mallowbee4 @missstrawbs2001 @halesfavoriteharlot @topgun-imagines @mandylove1000 @starkleila @buckysteveloki-me @hangmanbrainrot @teacupsandtopgun @djs8891 and etc

#tom iceman kazansky #tom kazansky x reader #iceman x oc #iceman lives #top gun maverick au #top gun au #top gun iceman #monica geller #top gun 1986 #top gun fanfic #top gun fic #top gun angst #top gun oc #tom kazansky x oc #tgm fanfiction #iceman x reader #original female character

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ereardon · 2 days

Text

In The Skies || Ch. 2

[Major John "Bucky" Egan x Reader]

Overview: On a night out in London, you meet fellow American Major John “Bucky” Egan of the 100th. As war rages on, you take a leave of absence during the spring of your third year at Oxford to sign up as a nurse on the front lines in England. Time and time again, you and Bucky find yourselves thrown together in the hospital ward as you tend to him and his teammates after missions gone awry. What happens when you find yourself falling for a man who might never return from the skies?

Pairing: Major John “Bucky” Egan x Reader

Chapter summary: Six months after you first meet Major Egan, he shows up at the bedside of Sergeant Quinn who just happens to be your patient. Sparks fly, again.

Warnings: Smut, alcohol, cursing, definitely historical inaccuracies

WC: 2.8K

Masterlist here

“Nurse? Nurse!”

Your head shot up, legs unfolding beneath you before you even realized, carrying you down the narrow hallway of the hospital, the floors squeaking beneath your shoes, a mixture of blood and urine and saline and muddy footprints all blurring into one.

“It’s his leg!” You skidded to a stop in front of a man writhing in pain.

“Morphine,” you said, nodding at the girl to your right who reached into her pocket, fingers returning with a small clear vial that you grabbed, driving it into the flesh of his thigh. The man let out a shriek, followed by blissful silence as you surveyed the scene. A severe bleed and a cracked tibia. The bone hadn’t shattered through the skin but you knew it was bad just by the way it was bulging against the flesh. “Over there,” you pointed at a gap against one wall. “I’ll get the surgeon.”

They wheeled him away and you made your way through the maze of beds and walkways, eyes wide, a few strands of hair sticking to your temples. It was hot, too hot for how early in the year it was. Early June. You should have been graduating from Oxford. Instead, you spent your days nursing soldiers back to health, sending them back to the battlefield with missing limbs and poorly patched scars and wounds on their souls that would never heal. And somehow, it felt better than any degree ever could.

“Dr. Peters!” Your voice rang out in the dingy corridor and the surgeon turned. He was short, with tight, dark curls and a pair of glasses that teetered on the edge of his nose.

“Nurse,” he said, “what is it?”

“Patient, Doctor, broken tibia.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yes. I just did a visual exam, no x-ray, but I’m positive.”

Dr. Peters eyed you. In the three months you had been stationed at Stoke Military Hospital in Devon, you hadn’t been wrong once about a patient. He knew that. The doctor sighed and put his hands in his lab coat pockets. “Alright. Show me this man.”

***

“Y/N? Isn’t your shift done?”

You shrugged, wiping your hands on a cloth before sticking it back in the pocket of your apron. “An hour ago, I don’t know. Still have to see Lieutenant Davies.”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see you at home?”

“See you at home.” You rounded the corner and smiled. “Lieutenant Davies?”

The gentleman on the gurney looked up with a grin. “Ma’am.”

“How are you feeling tonight?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Good as a man with one arm can be.”

“You always keep good spirits. I like that about you.”

“Go out with me, won’t you?”

You laughed. “Now Lieutenant, we’ve been over this before. I don’t date patients.”

“Won’t you make an exception?” he asked, brown eyes glittering. “Just this once? For all you know, I could be the best date you’ve ever had!”

“Oh I bet you would be,” you said, ringing out a washcloth in a nearby basin and pressing it gently to his forehead, dragging it down the side of his face, washing his neck carefully. His soft eyes never left yours. “But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other men, now would it?”

“Screw them,” he murmured and you laughed. “What do you say, darlin’? You and me, let’s get out of here.”

You shook your head, dipping the washcloth once more and pressing it over his bare chest. “You’re forward, aren’t you?”

“War taught me anything, it’s that we all die someday. Gotta make the most of every day that’s left.”

“Amen,” you whispered, setting the rag down back in the pan. “I’m going home now. You be good, alright?”

Davies grinned. “Aren’t I always, darlin’?”

You chuckled, making your way down the hallway toward the doors when they burst open, a flash of night sky visible through the open doors before they swung shut. Everything in the hospital was a rush. Triage and move on. But you had long-term patients as well. Men who were there for days, weeks, even months. Ones who weren’t healthy enough to go home, and not whole enough to go back to battle. Men who had seen loss. Men who had nothing left to fight for.

“Y/N?” A voice from your left startled you out of your thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Are you headed home?”

“Just about.”

“Can you do me a favor?” Jolene tipped her head to one side. “A patient in bed fourteen. Came in earlier today. Having a hard time sleeping. Think he just needs someone to sit with him and I’ve been here for going on twenty hours.”

“Go home,” you insisted, practically pushing the girl out the door. “I’ll take it. What’s his name?”

“Quinn.” She flushed. “Thank you. I owe you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You took a look around the room, spotting the bed that Jolene had mentioned. “Hi there,” you said quietly, inching toward the bed. “Lieutenant Quinn, is it? I’m Nurse Y/N.”

The man who looked up at you was pale, practically ghostly. He had diminutive features, a small nose that curved upward, eyes that gapped at you from the hollows of his sockets. “Sergeant,” he croaked. There was sweat beading his forehead, his upper lip, the visible bones of his collar. “You’re promoting me.”

You smiled, grabbing for a washcloth and pressing it to his forehead gently. “Sergeant Quinn,” you replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad, ma’am.”

“Now don’t you go lying to me,” you reprimanded him.

“Not good,” he said after a moment. “Feel cold. And dizzy. It’s like everything in my brain is static.”

You pulled away the washcloth and sat down on the thin cot next to his leg. Quinn looked up, eyes wide. “What brought you here, sir?”

“Got shot in the side,” he whispered. “Running from enemy fire.”

“Are you a pilot?”

“No, ma’am. I just fly with them.”

“I met a pilot once,” you said. The memories of Bucky flooded your senses. The way his touch felt against your bare skin. The bristle of his mustache as he kissed you. You shook the memory out of your mind. You had been a different person, seven months before. Back then, war hadn’t felt so real. It was tangible now. It crept into every thought, it had made its way into every atom in your body. You were no longer a girl. You were a nurse. You were part of the war effort.

“Oh yeah?” Quinn said, teeth chattering. “Maybe I know him.”

You smiled. “Maybe.” You reached out, brushing one hand over his cheek, thumb stroking his sullen face gently. “Jolene said you’re not sleeping. How come that is?”

“Every time I close my eyes,” he whispered, “I see them.”

“See who?”

“Them,” he murmured. “All the men we lost.”

There was a type of pain in his voice that you hadn’t known until you joined the hospital. Now it was the only tone you could hear. It saturated every word that was spoken under this roof. “You try and sleep,” you whispered, settling down into the chair next to his bed and reaching out, taking his frail hand in yours. His was dirty, but yours was caked in dried blood as well. “I’ll stay here so you’re not alone.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” you replied. “Now close your eyes.” He closed his eyes, and you did too. The next thing you knew, it was the morning and your neck was bent to one side. Your eyes opened, trying to place where you were. And then the scent hit. It was as familiar as the smell of the ocean or a new book.

Death.

Sergeant Quinn was asleep on the bed and you dropped his hand gently, standing up, careful not to wake him. He looked peaceful. You took a mental picture of him. That was the best you could do, you had realized. Remembering them at their best was the only way to make it through the hard days.

The flat you shared with two other girls, both nurses, was small and tidy. You spent as little time there as possible. Not because you didn’t like it, but the only place that you felt at peace was at the hospital. Doing your part. Helping people. All of the trivial things that had mattered so much less than a year before had vanished. You stopped wearing as much makeup or caring as much about how your hair was set. You had given up pantyhose entirely. You were a different girl than you had been.

Back at the hospital, the stench of decay and the sharp bite of stringent solutions nipped at your nose. At first it had been jarring. Now it was simply familiar. The hustle and bustle no longer felt out of the ordinary. If anything, laying down to go to sleep at night felt uncomfortable in its near silence.

“Jolene.” You stopped the girl with one hand against her arm. She swiveled around. “How’s Sargeant Quinn?”

She smiled. “Good. Better. Says you were the one who got him to finally rest.”

“I tried.”

“Few of his friends from his unit stopped by, but you should check on him. Think it would make him feel even better.”

“I will.” You weaved around the corridors, past incoming traumas: soldiers on gurneys, soldiers limping, ones with bandages across their faces and arms and necks. Every one you gave a sympathetic look. “Sergeant Quinn,” you said, rounding the corner where his bed sat.

Four heads turned. Three men in uniform standing in a semicircle turned and your eyes scanned them quickly before doing a double take, backtracking to the man on the far left next to Quinn’s bedside. His warm eyes flashed in recognition.

“Y/N,” he breathed out and you felt your breath catch in your throat.

“John,” you whispered. The room, so crowded and cloying and loud, suddenly felt very still and very quiet. Just you and Major Egan standing beneath a street lamp on a bitingly cold London evening.

He stepped forward and you saw how even over the course of half a year he had aged. Tiny crows feet in the corners of his eyes. There was a hollowness, too. He placed your hands in his. “You’re a nurse? What about Oxford?”

“I deferred my last semester,” you replied quietly, suddenly aware of all of the eyes on the two of you. “To help.”

He smiled, his fingers squeezing yours. “So you’re the fantastic nurse that Quinn here won’t stop yammering on about.”

From the bed, Sergeant Quinn blushed. “Bucky, I didn’t know.”

You shook your head. “Nothing to know, Sergeant. Major Egan and I met a few months back. Looks like you weren’t lying when you said you were in good hands.” The memory of that one night with John brought a tingle between your legs. He grinned.

“Are you working?” Bucky asked.

“Always,” you replied candidly. “It never stops, you know. It’s a constant revolving door of injured men.”

His eyes darkened. “I know.” His mouth shifted into a smile. “Take a walk with me.”

“I have some patients to check on,” you whispered. “How long are you here?”

“Few days,” he replied.

“Meet me for dinner.” You listed off a restaurant nearby and Bucky nodded.

He squeezed your hand one more time before dropping it. “I’ll be there.”

You smiled at Sargeant Quinn. “Now I’m going to have to ask you boys to leave so I can clean the Sargeant’s wounds and replace his bandages.”

Bucky and the two other men exited the makeshift room and you felt a shiver work its way up your spine.

You had thought you would never see Major John Egan ever again.

***

Normally time in the hospital sped forward, like a clock that was wound too tight. But waiting for the sun to set so you could meet Bucky felt like it was taking an eternity.

You were fixing a dressing on a soldier when Jolene popped out around a corner. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

She tipped her head to the side. “Heard there was a handsome Major here earlier asking all about you.”

You tried to hide your grin. “Gossip.”

“I love gossip,” she replied and you laughed. “Does that mean Lieutenant Davies is on the market?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What happened to not getting involved with patients?”

“He’s so charming!”

“He is,” you replied, wiping your hands on your apron and standing up straight. “They all are.”

“So this Major?” she asked as the two of you made your way down the hall. “How well do you know him?”

“We only met once,” you said. “Just before Christmas, at a bar in London.”

“And?”

You grinned and hid it behind one hand, faking a yawn. “And nothing. He’s a gentleman. He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

Jolene shrieked and a few patients turned their heads. You shushed her but it was no use. She was practically giddy. “God, you’re lucky,” she whined. “Ask if he has a friend, why don’t you?”

“He has a best friend who is also a Major,” you said and her eyebrows shot up. “But don’t get too attached. He’s engaged.”

She sighed. “All the good ones are.”

“Not all the good ones.”

Jolene squeezed your hand. “You go have fun. I have it covered here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Go!” She practically pushed you out of the door.

***

When was the last time you had dressed up? Worn something other than a blood-soaked apron and saddle shoes?

When was the last time you had gone on a date?

Probably at Uni, but even then the lines were blurry. Was studying together over a tea equivalent to a date? Or a formal where everyone was required to attend? You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt the way you did that night in Bucky’s arms.

Safe.

You were late, hair pulling out of the messily placed pins, the neckline of your dress slightly crooked. As you whipped into the restaurant, peering around, you spotted John with a grin on his face, his eyes planted on yours.

He stood as you approached the table and leaned over, pressing his lips to your cheek, one hand on the back of the chair, letting you settle into it before he pressed it inward.

“Hi.” There was something so sincerely innocent about the way he said it. Almost shy.

“What brings you to town, Major?”

“A mission,” he replied. “Or the end of one, I guess.”

“Sergeant Quinn. He’s quite impressed by you.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He said you’re the better guy.”

Bucky paused before lifting his glass of wine to his lips and taking a slow sip. Then, “I’ve thought a lot about you. Since that night.”

“Had to send a fellow American off to war the only way I knew how.”

His eyes darkened. “It was more than that, Y/N.”

“What are you saying, Major Egan?”

Bucky tipped his head. “I’m saying I haven’t stopped thinking about you, sweetheart. That not a day goes by where I haven’t wondered if I would ever see you again.”

“Must have made an impression, then,” you whispered.

His eyes were glued on yours. “Go out with me.”

You laughed. “We’re on a date right now!”

“Tomorrow,” he replied instantly. “And the night after that.”

“Let’s see how the date goes first,” you replied, “before we go making plans.”

He shook his head. “Don’t need to wait to know what I already do. Which is that you’re the woman for me, Y/N.”

“John,” you whispered, a blush creeping up your neck. “You’ve known me a total of two days. You can’t say something like that.”

“I was five years old the first time I saw an airplane,” he replied. “And do you know what I thought?”

“That you wanted to be a pilot.”

He nodded. “Yes. The first time I ever saw a plane I knew that’s how I was going to spend my life. In the skies.”

“You based your entire career, your whole life, around one glance at the sky when you were a child?”

“I knew in my heart, with every inch of my body, that it was what I was meant to do.” He paused. “It’s how I felt when I saw you again earlier today. Something clicked. Something said this was right.”

“You have to give me a second to process this,” you whispered. “I haven’t seen you in six months. And here you are, saying what exactly?”

His fingertips met yours across the table. “All I know is that I knew the first time I saw a plane that it was going to change my life.” His eyes met yours. “And that’s how I feel now, looking at you.”

Tagging some people I think may enjoy this:

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#masters of the air#mota#john bucky egan#masters of the air series#major john egan x reader#bucky egan x reader#callum turner

#masters of the air #mota #john bucky egan #masters of the air series #major john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #callum turner #bucky x you #bucky egan #john egan fanfic #john egan fic #major john egan #john egan

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notapaladin · 7 days

Text

wishes and horses and all the king's men

Lieutenant Malavai Quinn had once been foolish enough to believe in heroes. That was before he was trapped on Balmorra for ten years, where the Resistance undermines his Empire, his superiors are more interested in lining their own pockets than doing their jobs, and any hopes for the future are ground into dust before they can take wing. And then Lord Baras's new apprentice walks into his life.

or, quinn experiences the results of meeting the LS sith warrior (confusion, doubt, renewed sense of hope/purpose, falling at least a little in love, etc)

Also on AO3!

“If that’s your best, you’re useless to me. I can shoot you dead with a clear conscience. Is that what you want?”

“N-no, sir, sorry, sir—”

“Then focus, Jillins. Dismissed.”

Lieutenant Malavai Quinn has not been having a good day. Quite frankly, he has not been having a good decade, not since Druckenwell and Broysc and being relegated to this absolute shiteheap of a planet. He would not consider himself a particularly violent man, but this latest—incompetence of Corporal Jillins has pushed him dangerously close to the edge. His fellow officers are already useless at best and actively a hindrance at worse—he’d suspect some of them of treason, except he’s not sure even the Resistance deserves them—and now this? This? On the day Darth Baras’s new apprentice is set to arrive? She will be here any minute, and hardly anything is prepared—he’s going to offend a Sith—

He doesn’t put a hand on his blaster, but he is sorely, sorely tempted. Right, he thinks. Breathe. Ignore the pounding in your temples, the ache in your back that never goes away because the bunks here are apparently made of ferrocrete, the way you can feel yourself shrinking, rotting with each new dawn on this fucking planet. Breathe.

With the effort he’s spending reeling in his temper, he barely registers the approaching footsteps—low-heeled boots, plenty of traction, a light and easy tread. (In the years to come, he will be embarrassed by this.) He does, however, notice the voice. Low, feminine, a little husky—and hesitant, as though its owner thinks he’s going to snap at them, too.

“...I am not sure I particularly want to know what he did.”

He has an audience, and he’s already been rude. He exhales sharply, draws himself up, and turns to face the speaker. He represents the Empire and Lord Baras in all things. He will be professional.

His mind immediately divides into two. The cool, analytical part notes the physical features of the woman standing before him and extrapolates conclusions. Human, roughly 1.6 meters tall, medium-dark brown skin, impractically long white hair put up in a bun that makes it practical again. Scarring on throat and jaw consistent with strangulation, possibly responsible for the roughness in her voice. Twin lightsabers at her hips, ornate gold handguards gleaming. Pale yellow eyes. This, then, must be Baras’s new apprentice. Lady Yaellia, only child of House Ivros, twenty-two years old and recently graduated from the Korriban academy. At her age, he’d thought he’d had the world at his feet too. Of course, she’s probably going to turn out to be right, if she doesn’t turn out dead instead. At least she will have had glory first. It doesn’t matter; she is Sith, and his role is to serve.

The rest of it feels as though it’s been punched, because Lady Yaellia is stunning. He is no blushing virgin; he’s met his fair share of attractive people. (Not many, since Druckenwell. Poor lieutenants are not attractive prospects. Still.) But the red-and-white synthleather suit she’s wearing does not leave very much of her figure to the imagination, even if the only actual exposed skin is her collarbones. She has the muscles of a gymnast and the sort of thighs he is quite certain he could die happily between. Her mouth is almost distractingly full, moreso because she’s clearly forgone the elaborate makeup many Sith favor. There are tiny gold hoops in her ears and eyebrows that glitter as they catch the light, but they aren’t as bright as the eyes now locked on his.

Normally, eye contact would be near-painful—metaphorically if not literally, for among Sith it’s generally taken as a challenge. Normally, he focuses on peoples’ ears or eyebrows or interesting things just over their shoulders. But he holds her gaze for longer than two heartbeats and doesn’t want to look away. He’s as Force-sensitive as a brick, but her lips are parted and there’s a faint flush on her cheeks and he doesn’t need the Force to realize—

To realize it’s been a millisecond too long, and bow deeply before this can get awkward. More awkward. “I—apologize for the delay, my lord. Lieutenant Malavai Quinn. I’m to be your liaison here on Balmorra.”

She smiles. Or at least makes an expression that passes for a smile. “Apprentice Yaellia. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope to leave you in a better mood than that unfortunate young man back there.”

“Well, as long as you don’t piss in his cereal...” mutters the Twi’lek lounging against the doorway.

Malavai’s gaze snaps to her. Lord Baras’s communique had mentioned a slave, but no other identifying details. Looking at this alien, he can’t see any signs of servitude. She is tall and rangy and blue-skinned and notably not wearing a collar, though there are faint scars around her neck where one once lay. Her clothes are serviceable browns and tans with plenty of pockets, but he spots a name brand belonging to a high-end Kaas City sporting goods store. She is also wearing a headband in what he’s always privately thought to be the ugliest shade of chartreuse imaginable. Most importantly, she is carrying two blasters and dares to speak to a Sith as an equal. He grinds his teeth.

Lady Yaellia flushes harder and huffs, “Vette! Unhelpful!” And then she turns back to Malavai, clearing her throat with a faint wince. “Lieutenant Quinn, this...is Vette. My friend. Anything you have to say to me can be passed on to her as well.”

It is a decidedly odd exchange. He pushes it aside to be examined later at his leisure. “Understood, my lord. Lord Baras will brief you personally, but I’m to acquaint you with the climate here on Balmorra first.”

“By all means, go ahead. Ah—one moment—” He’s so unprepared for the sight that it takes him a moment to register the sight of her, not the alien, pulling out a datapad and stylus in clear preparation to take notes before flashing him a quick, encouraging smile that does something very strange to his chest. “I’m waiting.”

He tells her. It is...strange. Certainly not bad, but strange. He’s never had a Sith listen so intently and yet so politely. She asks clarifying questions and once or twice requests that he repeat things “a little more slowly, please, I—ah,” and a vague gesture at her ears that has him wondering if she has hearing problems even as his mind reels at hearing a Sith say please. She is either genuinely enthusiastic about this mission or a very, very good actress. She does not once make eye contact.

And then Lord Baras calls. He is excused. Whatever the details of the Sith’s true mission, it’s not for him to know.

But he stands just on the other side of the door, ears tuned to the sound of her voice—yes, my lord, of course, my lord, as you wish, my lord, meek and deferential as is proper—and his stomach drops as he remembers the briefing he’s read. She’ll be taking out the satellite control tower in the Markaran Plains, a veritable deathtrap of mechanical security. She is Sith, but...she is one woman. He doubts his aid will make a difference in her chances of survival.

Regardless, he must do his duty. He gathers his equipment before he is summoned back into the room, and this time he does not look at her face. She’s almost certainly going to die anyway. “My lord, I've prepared what you need for your assault. In order to destroy the mainframe, you'll mount this charge to the base and activate it. Then contact me for detonation.”

She studies the explosive charge he’s given her. He’d thought it was fairly small, but it takes both hands for her to hold it properly. “If it can be detonated remotely, couldn’t I do it? I’m sure you have more interesting things to do.”

He really doesn’t. More to the point, he’s quick to explain, “It would be safer if you were as far away as possible, my lord. There will be very little time to flee once it is armed.”

She hums thoughtfully, still looking at the charge and not at him. “I am very fast. But you are right. And...um. It is good of you to consider my safety, Lieutenant.”

His face goes hot. “Think nothing of it, my lord. It is my duty. Will you be leaving immediately?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been requested to liaise with a Lieutenant Davrill regarding another operation. I’ll be around for a short while.” And then she half-turns to go, before pausing to focus her gaze on him. Well, on the Imperial flag behind his desk, but roughly in his direction. “One more question, if you don’t mind. Do you know an intelligence officer by the name of...Breerden?”

“Breerdin,” the Twi’lek corrects.

Yaellia coughs. “Yes. Him.”

He tries to keep his face impassive, but his lip curls anyway. “I have heard of him, my lord. Might I ask why?”

Immediately, he realizes he probably shouldn’t have asked that question. Not when it makes her eyes narrow and her back stiffen as she says crisply—coldly—“He wanted me to hush up the accidental death of a Chiss delegate by an Imperial officer. He offered to pay me to keep quiet about it. I want to know who to file a complaint with.”

For a moment, all he can do is blink at her. Sith do not file complaints. Not when they have lightsabers and the Force to do it for them. And they certainly have never lowered themselves to care about the rampant corruption and flouting of duties that is par for the course here on Balmorra. Particularly not when that corruption could be presented as necessary for Imperial interests—and he has no doubt Breerdin, the swine, did exactly that. “Uh,” he says finally. “That would be Major Bessiker, my lord. But there is no reason to trouble yourself; I can file the necessary datawork for you.”

She shakes her head firmly. “I’ll do it. He will listen to me.”

He won’t listen to you, Malavai hears. It’s the truth, but it still stings. “...Understood, my lord. Will that be all?”

Strangely, there’s color in her cheeks again. “Um. Yes. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

Only when she’s well and truly out of his office, with the door shut behind her—and he keeps his gaze firmly on the back of her head while she leaves, thank you very much—does he let himself fall out of parade rest and into his chair. For thirty-two seconds, he sits there and thinks.

This, then, is his lord’s apprentice. What a strange Sith.

(Quite unbeknownst to him, that strange Sith steps into the hallway and immediately grabs Vette’s arm, her eyes wide. “Vette.”

Vette raises an eyebrow, lekku curling warily. “Yeah?”

She takes a deep breath and blurts out, all in a rush, “Please, please tell me I sounded normal in there.”

The Twi’lek rolls her eyes. “You sounded fine. Why?”

Seemingly at a loss for words, Yaellia gestures back at Lieutenant Quinn’s closed door and makes a frustrated grumbling noise before finally spitting out, “Do you see him?! He looked at me with—with those eyes, and I forgot how words worked!”

Vette blinks slowly. “I’m sorry, him? The guy who looks like he’s stepped in bantha shit? The stick up that man’s ass probably has a stick up its ass.”

She turns immediately red. “You,” she sniffs, “have absolutely no concept of Imperial decorum. That man epitomizes it. It is extremely attractive.”

“So what’s the problem? You’re Sith. Imps practically worship you people. He’d probably be flattered if you hauled him into a supply closet.”

Yaellia chokes. (A stylus falls off Malavai’s desk.) “I’m fairly sure he prefers women who can—who can make eye contact and string together coherent sentences at the same time!”

Vette winces. Yeah, Yaellia’s always been shit at that in the weeks they’ve known each other. There’s only so much polite averting of gazes you can do before people realize it’s not just politeness. She reaches out and pats her friend/former master’s (for about five minutes) shoulder. “You’ll get your chance.”

Yaellia deflates. “I hope so,” she mutters. “Come on. Let us find Major Bessiker and perhaps a food cart. I am famished.”)

Malavai does not hear from Lady Yaellia for the rest of the day. This is fine.

He does, however, hear that II Officer Breerdin has been officially reprimanded and a full investigation into the death of a Chiss delegate on Imperial soil has been launched. It’s enough to lift his spirits, even if only slightly. There are standards to maintain, no matter what II says.

He works. He takes precisely twenty minutes for dinner in the officers’ mess, counting the time it takes him to walk there from his office. There’s no need for him to linger; it’s not as though he has friends to catch up with. Even if he did, what would he say? “I’ve met Lord Baras’s new apprentice,” invites distasteful gossip regarding the particulars, and he will not speculate on his superiors’ personal traits.

He chews on a roast nerf sandwich that not even Kaasian purple curry sauce can save and reflects that it is, after all, quite a long way to the Markaran Plains even in a very fast speeder. She might have only just arrived, and she will undoubtedly be busy. He must be ready to back her up.

The other denizens of the mess hall keep talking amongst themselves—idiot chatter about Huttball scores and relationships and mission gossip—and he’s suddenly sure that if he hears one more unauthorized sound he’ll shoot something. His sandwich isn’t worth finishing.

As he rises to dispose of it, he realizes that Lieutenant Davrill is eyeing him. Pointedly, he turns away.

Too late. Davrill is approaching. “Quinn.”

“Davrill.”

“What have you heard about that new apprentice of Lord Baras’s? You’ve met her, right?”

He stiffens, and now he makes eye contact. “I have, yes. Why?”

Davrill frowns. “Captain Rigel’s set her on Operation Breaking Point, down in Gorinth Canyon. She told us she’s working with you on some mission of her lord’s. I felt it appropriate to consider combining our efforts.”

He doesn’t know the particulars of Operation Breaking Point, but he knows enough. He’s suddenly regretting that sandwich. Baras would not take just any Sith as an apprentice, but the last report he’d received on rebel activity in Gorinth Canyon had used words like army and overwhelming force and too bloody many droids.

On the other hand, if she cannot triumph against overwhelming force, she is no Sith, and Lord Baras will have a new apprentice. One who will not, Emperor willing, cause even a whisper of inappropriate thoughts to cross his mind.

“...I trust she will be in contact with you if your aid is required,” he says, and steps out onto the pavement.

Sobrik is never quiet. As soon as he leaves the building, his ears are assaulted with speeder engines, pedestrians chatting, pedestrians arguing, and the horrible discovery that someone down the block has either been raised by gundarks or has never heard of the existence of headphones because they are very loudly blasting an InstaComm video. But outside doesn’t contain buzzing fluorescent lights or a humming HVAC system, so it’s almost worth it.

He exhales and rolls his shoulders, gazing up at the flat gray of the night sky. He wishes he had a cigarette, never mind that finances had forced him to quit years ago. The cold wind revives him like a slap.

Back to work, then. He has suspected Resistance comms to slice.

It is 2000 and he is about to go off-duty for the night when his comm chimes. Lady Yaellia’s frequency, audio-only. He all but lunges for it.

“Yes, my lord?”

She sounds tense. No, distressed. “What’s the comm frequency for a medevac? There’s an injured soldier here, and we don’t have enough kolto to patch him up!”

“I can still fight!” a distant male voice huffs.

“You can not,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t even be standing—I can see bone! I want you off your feet, Lieutenant! Vette, make him sit down!” With a huff, she turns her focus back to Malavai. “Lieutenant Rutau is the only survivor of—what did you say it was? Second Battalion, Besh Company, First Platoon? The droids in here are ruthless. I will be completing his mission for him, but I am not going to leave him here alone and injured.”

There’s a somewhat closer protest of, “My lord, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Yaellia says firmly. “Without good, brave Imperials like you, the Empire is nothing. You are who we fight for.”

Malavai blinks mutely at the wall, heart suddenly pounding. She sounds like—like something out of a storybook. His mother had read him stories when he was very young, before his brother was born; most of them featured heroic Sith, valiant and noble warriors who had been protective of the Imperials under their command, who had valued their lives as more than just blaster fodder. Who had believed in the Empire and everything it stood for, not just their own ambitions. He’d dreamed once of serving under a Sith like that, but as he’d grown older and wiser he’d realized there were no Sith like that. Maybe there were, during the Great War or the Long Flight—in the days of Naga Sadow or Odile Vaiken—but there are none now.

It seems Yaellia of House Ivros hasn’t gotten the memo. She’s still talking to Lieutenant Rutau, reassuring him that help is coming, that the mission will not fail, that he will be safe. That he’s been very brave.

He thinks, suddenly and abruptly, of the now-Lord Venditor, back when he had been Private Venditor under his command. Before Druckenwell, before the man had panicked and thrown a speeder at a Pub with his mind and been shipped off to Korriban. He’d been idealistic too. Kind. He’d spent a great deal of time worrying about his family’s tuk’ata-breeding business on Dromund Fels.

It hadn’t lasted. He’d been younger then than Lady Yaellia is now, but he’d adjusted quickly. Thrived, even. The last time Malavai had seen him, he had been the perfect Sith.

(The perfect modern Sith, not like this figure from the most fanciful myths.)

Slowly, his heart rate calms. She is young. Life has been kind to her. She will learn. Give it five or ten years, especially under Baras’s tutelage, and she’ll be as cruel as the rest of them.

In the meantime, she’s asked him a question, and he quickly pulls up her coordinates. “My lord?”

“Oh—yes?”

“I have your location and am calling in a medical transport from the nearest outpost now. It will arrive within the hour. For future reference, I am sending the medevac frequency to your datapad.”

“Oh, thank you!” Then, while he’s reeling from being thanked by a Sith, she turns to Rutau and says softly, “See? You’ll be fine. Now, do call me when they pick you up, alright? If I come back to nothing but a blood trail I shall worry.”

The Lieutenant mumbles something. Malavai’s not paying attention, because Yaellia’s speaking to him again. “I regret to say we might not get to the satellite control tower until tomorrow morning, but it shall be our first priority. You’ve been a great help so far, and I hope we’re not keeping you from your own rest.”

He swallows. “Ah—no, my lord. There is no need to concern yourself with me.”

She lets out a low hum. “...As you say,” she murmurs. “Well. Um. Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Ah. Good evening, my lord.”

The call ends.

He stares at the wall for a long time, replaying his mother’s voice in his mind. The memories are thirty years old, but they might as well be yesterday.

“Long, long ago, when tuk’ata had fur...”

He shakes his head. He is overtired. It is time to call it a day.

Malavai Quinn’s mornings look like this:

At 0605, he rises. While cursing himself for oversleeping, he trudges to his closet-sized fresher to wash his face and wage the next battle in the never-ending war against his own beard, knowing it’ll be stubble again by the afternoon. If he’s not doing PT that day, this is also when he showers; otherwise, he puts it off until after his workout. Ablutions complete, he dons his uniform quickly and efficiently. Breakfast is tea and toast made on a range older than he is. There’s no commute to worry about; much of the military housing is concentrated near the spaceport. He has no lovers or pets or potted plants, and all his underlings know not to contact him unless the city is actively on fire. By 0700, he is in his office and starting his workday. After ten years, he has his morning routine down to a science.

Except today, at 0630, his work comm chimes. Since he is taking a sip of tea at the time this is nearly fatal, and he has ample time to reflect on how stupid and undignified a death it would have been as he clears his airways.

The comm is still chiming. Wheezing, he picks it up. No holo; he’s just gotten tea down his front and he’ll have to change his shirt before anyone is allowed to see him, no matter what the emergency is.

“Good morning, Lieutenant!”

He blinks slowly, a lapse he will blame on not having finished his tea yet. Lady Yaellia is astonishingly chipper. He wonders if this is the power of the Dark Side fueling her at an hour where the non-gifted are typically consumed with hatred for all life. “Uh. Good morning...? My lord,” he hastily adds.

“Apologies for the early call. I just wanted to tell you that we are setting out towards the satellite control center now, and expect to arrive within—Vette, map? Two hours.”

There is a distant groan within comm range. “You fly, I’m taking a nap...”

Irritation is a wonderful source of energy. Disgraceful. What kind of servant—she’d called the Twi’lek a friend, but surely there can be no friendship worth having with a lowly alien, one with a Republic accent that can peel paint—disrespects a Sith like that? And what kind of master allows it? He takes a deep breath and deliberately sets his anger aside until later, when it can serve him. “I will be ready, my lord.”

She hums happily. “Good. I’ll talk to you later.”

And then she ends the call. Still feeling slightly poleaxed, he downs the rest of his tea in a single swallow and goes to change his shirt. He’ll clearly have a long day ahead of him.

She isn’t the only operative he’s monitoring—he has a small squadron scouting the outskirts of the Balmorran Arms Factory, and another embedded deep in the Windswept Plateau tracking a Republic investigator’s movements—but none of them are Sith. Regardless of her feelings on the matter, she is the most important one. He sips tea from a thermos and watches dots on a half-dozen screens, marking time until he sees the dot that is Lady Yaellia approaching the satellite center. From there, it’s a simple matter to slice the security cams and watch her on holo. As he types in the command, he wonders how far she’ll get.

The holocam buzzes to life. For a moment, there is nothing out of the ordinary. Republic soldiers and Republic droids, both tense. The flickering of a laser fence just offscreen.

And then blaster shots ring out, and as the first droid falls there is a blur, and Lady Yaellia strikes the survivors like a thunderbolt.

Slowly, he sets his tea down. His mouth is dry, but he doesn’t think he can risk looking away. He can’t miss a second of her in motion.

He has seen more skilled Sith in action. He has seen Sith who were more powerful, more brutal. But Yaellia is a fine-tuned mixture of speed and grace, as agile as the best gymnasts. Her brilliant crimson sabers, red as blood, move so fast they leave afterimages when he dares to blink. She parries blaster bolts with ease, dancing around nearly every return blow; when she’s not quite fast enough, she snarls like a beast and he swears he can see the air ripple as she draws on her pain to fuel her strikes. As she advances through the station, Vette lays down cover fire, shooting into melee with the air of a woman who’s used to her partner’s fighting style.

And where they strike, Republic scum falls. Laser-cut metal and severed limbs litter the ground. The air is filled with the silence of the dead. It is glorious.

As Yaellia stops to arm the charges—panting raggedly, her hair falling out of her bun, her eyes sun-bright—he tells himself it is only patriotic fervor he feels. That his only desire in this moment is to be the one in Vette’s place, backing her up. That if he is breathing hard, fists white-knuckled on the edge of his desk, it’s only because of the rollercoaster that is watching her in combat.

And then Lord Baras calls, and he curses out loud before sucking in a breath that scorches his lungs and answering—with only a slight waver in his voice—“My lord?”

“Quinn,” Baras rumbles. “How fares my apprentice?”

He makes himself breathe evenly. “Very well, my lord. She is arming the charges at the satellite control center as we speak.”

“Good, good.” Baras hums thoughtfully, and then orders, “Put her on the line. It is time I gave her her next orders. You will find a holomail with details pertinent to you.”

He nods. “At once, my lord.”

When he calls Yaellia, she answers at the first ring. “Lieutenant?” she pants.

He swallows hard. “My lord, I mark your progress, and see that the charge is armed. I will detonate once you are at a safe distance. But first, I have Darth Baras on holo for you. I will retreat and leave the line secure.”

She huffs out an affirmative noise. He sets his comm down and turns to his holomail, which indeed does contain a short message from Lord Baras. It’s not much: a name, a location. He starts to wonder why in the Emperor’s name Baras is so concerned about an ensign, but decides he’s better off not knowing.

Baras ends the call, and he picks up. It’s still on holo, and he’s glad that the quality and scaling will mean it’s harder for him to give anything away. Not that there is anything for him to give away. Really. His mind is not at all replaying the arch of her back as she spun out of the way of a blaster bolt or the way her teeth bared in a snarl as she whirled to slice a droid in half.

She pushes her hair back from her face and almost smiles at him. Fuck.

He exhales sharply. Best to jump into it. “My lord, Ensign Durmat is being detained in the brig of the Republic crater outpost in Gorinth, awaiting questioning by the investigator Baras has me tracking. I will alert you if she appears to be heading there; I assume you wish to get to Durmat before she does.”

“Emperor willing,” she agrees easily. “What can you tell me about her?”

There is frustratingly little to tell. Wherever the Jedi found this investigator, she’s proof that they are capable of subtlety. “...She appears to be tailing one of the Republic's own—a Commander Rylon. I'm instructed to keep close tabs but stay out of her way.”

She nods, the holo bobbing up and down as she starts trotting back the way she came. “Good. We’ll be heading to the crater outpost now. Do you—do you want to stay on the line?”

“Do I want to—” He blinks at her. “Forgive me, my lord, I’m not sure why you’re asking?”

It’s Vette who answers, leaning into holoview with a smirk. “Boss lady figured you’d wanna watch this place get blown sky-high.”

Yaellia clears her throat. “Yes. That.”

He blinks again, and then feels his lips curve. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

So he stays on holo while the women jog back through the station, up an elevator (Yaellia demands, out loud, why nobody has ever heard of guard rails—“a rhetorical question, Lieutenant”), through hallways full of gore and shattered metal, and out into the shattered landscape of the Markaran Plains.

And then he detonates the charges. The eruption of metal and masonry in a ball of flame more than makes up for the assault on his eardrums, and when Yaellia lets out a victory whoop he finds himself grinning. The unused muscles ache.

“That was glorious!” Yaellia whoops, catching Vette in a sideways hug. “Well done, Lieutenant!”

Well done. A hot flush races over his skin, and it is briefly hard to catch his breath. His collar is too tight. Well done.

But there is still a job to do. He tears himself away from the sight of the destruction he’s wreaked and back to his console, where he quickly inserts a remote spike into the Republic crater outpost’s mainframe. It’s almost trivially easy; their backdoors are wide open for a slicer of his caliber. Getting into the actual security is somewhat more time-consuming, but eventually he manages it.

“I've managed to slice the security you'll need to breach the crater outpost,” he says finally. “Transmitting it now.”

Yaellia scrabbles at her belt for her datapad, smiling when she sees it. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Vette, I’m forwarding this to you.”

His part is over for now. He can breathe easily. Well, as easily as he has been so far, watching her. “Good luck on your mission, my lord,” he murmurs, and means it. “I'll be here if you need anything.”

Then, finally, he ends the call.

Hours pass like a kidney stone. He regrets having left Lady Yaellia to her own devices almost immediately; it’s a long way to Gorinth from where she is, and the Republic presence there is more heavily entrenched. But she survived whatever she was doing there for Operation Breaking Point, so she’ll probably be fine. He takes advantage of the lull to check in with his teams on the Plateau and the Arms Factory, relieved when they report that they’re following his orders not to engage. He supposes Jillins isn’t completely useless.

He’s about to eat lunch at his desk—a nutrient bar and more tea—when Lady Yaellia calls him again.

“Lieutenant Quinn?”

Even though she can’t see him, he sits up straighter. “Yes, my lord?”

“We’ve arrived at the crater outpost.” A pause. “...Do you...uh. Have a map of the area? It’s a bit...”

Vette interjects, “When they said it was a crater, they’re not kidding. It’s a kriffin’ nightmare down here.”

He clears his throat and pulls up the map he’s generated from sliced floor plans and aerial surveillance. Truthfully, he can understand the request; the crater is a warren of different levels and buildings, densely packed and heavily defended. “...I am forwarding it to your datapad now.”

“Oh, thank you!” Yaellia chirps. “You’re a blessing.”

He inhales so sharply he nearly chokes on his own spit. Bloody hell, why does she keep saying things like that?!

It’s only when he hears blaster fire at the other end of the comm that he realizes Yaellia has forgotten to turn it off. His mind spins. He should hang up. That would be the right thing to do. But he’s meant to be observing her, and she had asked him to be in touch in case she needs him...

He stays on the line. He keeps listening, though he does turn the volume down before the cacophony makes him lose his mind.

He notices immediately when the fighting stops and Yaellia’s footsteps slow, though he has to increase the volume again to catch the sound of two men speaking from what seems to be the next room.

“Pipe down, Durmat. There's something going on outside. I'm trying to listen.”

“Come on, Zixx, throw me a bone. Who's this agent that's comin' to interrogate me? At least answer that, will ya?” There’s a pause. Some muttering he can’t catch.

And then, in tones of anguish, “All right, all right, I ain't proud, I give! My dad's an Imperial agent!”

“Commander Rylon?!”

Ice fills Malavai’s veins. He thought he’d known all of Lord Baras’s assets stationed on this planet. It wouldn’t do to kill one of his allies by mistake, after all. He won’t give Lord Baras any reason to question either his loyalty or his usefulness. Rylon must have slipped in telling his son; surely that’s why Yaellia has been sent after the boy. But the man’s been a thorn in the Empire’s side for years—decades—and he’s never pulled a punch. He must have been a flawless spy.

And now Baras is having his son killed. Rylon will almost certainly be next. That makes no sense, unless this investigator on his tail is close to exposing him...

Or Rylon has outlived his usefulness.

Malavai’s hands go numb. Dimly, he registers a faint squeaking noise, and then realizes he’s shaking so hard that his chair is rattling. It doesn’t feel like a thing that’s happening to him.

No. He is loyal. He has always been loyal. He is no threat. He would die before he betrayed Lord Baras, and Lord Baras knows this.

(It wouldn’t be enough to save him. He knows this, too.)

Rushing footsteps knock him back to reality, back into his own body. He almost misses Yaellia’s pained-sounding “Really?!”

Zixx is gloating. “Take a look, Sith. That’s what two squads of the Republic’s finest look like.”

Yaellia sucks in a noisy breath. “Drop your weapons and stand aside,” she snaps. “Or die.”

Malavai blinks at the screen in front of him. That had sounded disturbingly like she was offering them a choice. A trick, surely. She’s trying to induce them to lower their guard before she strikes. She can’t possibly mean that. He can’t square it with the woman who had fretted—yes, fretted—over the Lieutenant Rutau now recuperating at the Markaran outpost.

It doesn’t work, anyway. The ensuing combat is remarkably short. So much for the Republic’s finest, he thinks with a scoff.

And then the stupid ensign is babbling, pleading for his life. Malavai does his best to ignore it, aided by the priority holomail he’s just gotten from his Plateau squad requesting backup against Pub war droids. By the time he arranges it, the ensign has finished up with, “Uh...I’m not exactly sure where I was goin’ with that. Please don’t kill me!”

You fool, Malavai thinks. She may be uncommonly...considerate of her underlings, but Lady Yaellia is a Sith. She would never dream of sparing Republic scum. And she certainly wouldn’t disobey her Master’s direct order.

And yet she says, “I’m willing to consider alternatives. Is there another solution?”

He’s honestly not sure he’s heard her correctly. But as he listens further, he realizes he has. He finds himself grateful to already be sitting down.

Durmat does, in fact, have a solution. The Republic has developed a memory-altering drug that leaves its victims a blank slate. Evidently, this was not the intended use, and it’s been slated for destruction because the Republic are idiots. He can think of half a dozen things he could use it for without blinking.

“...I’ll overdose and not know nothin’ no more. That way my dad’s secret identity is safe!”

Yaellia is silent for a long moment. Malavai tenses. Any moment, he expects to hear the hum of a saber igniting.

Finally, she replies, “Good idea. Where is it?”

The idiot ensign babbles some more, but Malavai’s barely listening even though he knows he should—a memory-wiping drug of such magnitude could be a great boon to the Empire. This is...insane. Bizarre. Such—mercy, such compassion, for an enemy? For the Republic? He isn’t sure what the tight, bilious feeling in his chest is. He knows hatred and jealousy, they are old bedfellows, but this sickens him. He doesn’t think he’s felt like this since Broysc. His hands hurt, and he realizes he’s been clenching his fists hard enough to leave half-moon indents in his palms.

He comes back to himself when he realizes Yaellia is speaking to Vette.

“The Republic talk about their moral superiority, and they create this? Hypocrites! We should burn this place to the ground and salt the ashes!” There’s a sharp thud, as though she’s punched a wall.

“...I dunno. Shit like this? Could be useful. Or at least, y’know, lucrative. I can think of a few memories I’d rather forget.”

A pause. Then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, “...As can I. Come, let’s bring this back to him. Oh, and a change of trousers.”

He’s getting another call—from the Arms Factory, this time—so he listens with half an ear to the sounds of the two womens’ footsteps and whatever short, asinine conversation they’re having with Ensign Durmat as the drug is administered while the rest of his focus splits between uploading an uncorrupted version of the data spike his team needs and the nauseous fury constricting his throat.

“Who are you?” the ensign asks hesitantly.

Yaellia’s voice goes...strange. Soft. Gentle, he realizes, though his mind is almost numb to the further shock of it. “That doesn’t matter. Who are you?”

Now the ensign sounds nervous. “I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. Can...can you tell me?”

Malavai can just make out the creak of synthleather. He wonders if Yaellia has knelt in front of the boy’s cell, hand outstretched to soothe him like a frightened animal. His stomach clenches.

“Don’t let anyone tell you who you are,” she murmurs. “You have to figure that out for yourself. Be brave, and walk in strength and in joy.”

The two women walk away. He’s aware that they’re talking quietly between themselves, but he suddenly can’t bear to listen. It’s all too much.

So he mutes them, knowing the risk he’s taking but figuring he will be contacted if he’s really needed, and just stares into space. His hands are shaking again.

She disobeyed Lord Baras. That is...that is treason. But our lord did not specifically say to kill the boy...and he has been silenced...

And her voice, soft and firm all at once, resolute as a fairytale heroine facing down a wounded krayt dragon. He’s never heard a Sith sound like that. He hadn’t imagined they could. It hurts something deep inside him.

He is jolted out of his reverie by a sharp buzz on his comm and Yaellia’s crisp, “Lieutenant Quinn, are you there?”

He’s tongue-tied for a heartstopping moment, and then forces out, “Affirmative. How can I be of assistance, my lord?”

She lets out an amused huff. “I just wanted to let you know that the mission was a success. Vette and I are on our way back to Sobrik now. Please consider yourself off-duty until then.”

He swallows. “Understood, my lord. I will—I will see you upon your return?” Stars, he sounds pathetic. He shouldn’t have made it a question. Now she’ll know he’s rattled.

She chuckles. It seems she doesn’t, or at least isn’t mentioning it. “Count on it, Lieutenant!”

And then she hangs up, and he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He is not off-duty; he still has troops to monitor. He should get back to that.

Instead he rises, goes to his desk in the adjacent room—it serves as both a private office for more delicate conversations and a makeshift sleeping chamber on long shifts—and pours himself half a glass of wine from his emergency stash. It’s terrible wine, halfway to vinegar and not in a good way, but it will stop him from trembling through the next six hours of his shift like a tooka that’s heard the cleaning droids. Maybe it will even help him make sense of what he’s heard.

One thing is for sure: Lady Yaellia is nothing like what he’d expected. He’s tempted to write it all down, get it out of his head, but he stops himself. Text files can be incriminating. His own mind will have to do.

Slowly, he lays out the facts. On the one hand, Lady Yaellia is greatly skilled in combat and perfectly willing to slay enemies of the Empire. She displays bravery, honor, and compassion towards Imperial soldiers, all exemplary qualities. On the other, she also extends those same qualities towards members of the Republic, which is quite frankly insane. They hate us, he wants to scream. They wouldn’t hesitate to wipe us from existence, to finish the job Pultimo started. And you let them live?!

He slams his fist on the table. Now he has sore knuckles and an aching heart. Deep breaths help the latter. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus. To think about this logically. Perhaps it is...he will call it tactically unsound, it doesn’t do to consider a Sith a few currants short of a plum pudding, but the mission was unquestionably a success. Moreover, her actions showed an impressive willingness to think outside the box and adapt to new information. He doesn’t have to like it to understand the reasoning. As for her motive...well, perhaps she was moved to pity. Stranger things have happened. Mostly in folktales, but they have. He vaguely remembers one about a tuk’ata pup with a cactus spine in its paw that seems applicable.

“Be brave, and walk in strength and in joy.”

He sets his empty glass down and returns to his main office. He has work to do, no matter how much Lady Yaellia’s words tug at his mind.

He writes up a report for Lord Baras and doesn’t realize until he’s halfway through the holomail that he has no idea what to say. He cannot lie to Lord Baras, of course. He’ll be found out immediately. And Lady Yaellia has disobeyed their master; he should be made aware of that. It would please him and raise his estimation of Malavai.

But Malavai has seen what happens to Sith who displease their masters. He’s seen plenty of smoking corpses, seen Lord Venditor’s fresh scars. And with a sense of nostalgia bordering on pain he remembers the myth of Lord Umbraline, brought down in her prime by a beloved, treacherous underling for the sake of their own advancement. That underling’s fate makes for a moral lesson to all baby Imperials never to betray their superiors. He doubts Yaellia would weep over his severed head.

So he puts down, The mission was a success. Ensign Durmat has been permanently silenced, and leaves it at that. It’s nothing but the truth.

Approximately five hours and forty-five minutes after Lady Yaellia’s last contact with him, he realizes he has been a fool—or at the very least, he’s committed the crime of drawing conclusions with grossly incomplete information. He’ll have to apologize when she returns. Normally, such a thought would tie his stomach in knots, but he rather doubts she’ll react with summary execution.

Still, when she walks in the door six hours and fifteen minutes after her last call, he is glad that the parade rest he slips into hides his faint tremor.

“My lord.” His voice is even. He’s proud of himself for that.

It’s been nearly two days since he’s seen her, and the battles she’s fought have left their mark. There’s a rip in her catsuit at the shoulder, showing the white lining, and her hair shows all the marks of having been hastily scooped into an approximation of her previous bun. Dirt has been ground into the seams of her gloves and the knees of her trousers. She’s taken out her piercings at some point, so there is nothing to distract him from her bright eyes. He barely even notices Vette trailing her.

Especially when she says, “Lieutenant Quinn. I hope you’ve been well?”

He nods. “Yes, my lord. Thank you. Ah. Permission to speak freely?”

She visibly swallows, shifting her weight. Were she not a Sith, he would say she was awkward. “Of course.”

He inhales. “I must be honest. Your success at the satellite listening center and Republic outpost has...surprised me, my lord. I computed the likelihood of success as nearly negligible. In my assessment, however, I only considered the capabilities of a typical Sith.”

He fixes his gaze somewhere around her left ear and continues, “Clearly, you are not a typical Sith. I will adjust future calibrations to account for your...unprecedented abilities.” Creative thinking. Mercy. Compassion. You act like a warrior from legend, my lord, and I wonder where it will take you.

She looks stricken, a dark blush spreading across her cheekbones. And then she grins, an expression of such pure delight he has to look away. “Lieutenant Quinn, you know just what to say!”

“...I’m not too proud to acknowledge when I’m mistaken,” he mutters, feeling his own face burn. He wishes it was just shame at his miscalculation; he is far too old to be blushing like a schoolboy because a pretty girl’s smiled at him, for the Emperor’s sake.

Vette coughs. “So, didja tell Baras all about how awesome we are yet?”

He meets her eyes deliberately. “Lord Baras has been informed, yes. I will alert Lady Yaellia at once when I receive a response.”

More annoyingly, she doesn’t even seem fazed. She actually has the nerve to roll her eyes. “Good to hear it. Hopefully it won’t be ‘till tomorrow, we need our beauty sleep.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all night,” Yaellia says simply.

Vette gives her a very pointed stare. “Ya-ell-i-a.”

She heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh, you’re right. Lieutenant, I’m sorry I cannot stay longer, but someone insists I eat three meals a day and sleep in a real bed, and I wouldn’t want to impose on your personal time.”

“’Sides, we haven’t even seen any of Sobrik yet!” Vette adds, seeming to cheer up as soon as she’s told she won’t need to actually do her job for a while. As she slings an arm around Yaellia’s shoulders, she continues, “C’mon, I heard the Sunken Sarlaac is fun. Maybe we’ll see you there, LT!”

He could have died happily without ever hearing her call him LT. He takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose, and says firmly, “Thank you, but no. I have work to finish up.”

It’s not a lie. And it certainly has nothing to do with any parts of his mind that may or may not be wondering what Lady Yaellia would look like during a night out—how she might wear her hair, if she prefers dresses or suits, if she would wear ever more elaborate jewelry—never mind that she fixes her gaze on the flag behind him and says briskly, “Of course, Lieutenant Quinn. I’ll leave you to it.”

He doesn’t normally work out at night, but as she leaves he decides he will make time to visit the base’s gym for an hour. The movement and exertion will settle his mind. So will the shower afterwards.

The very cold shower.

The next day, he wakes to a sore shoulder and a priority holomail and has very possibly never dressed so quickly in his life. He doesn’t even bother shaving. The hour between when he sees Lord Baras’s reply and when Lady Yaellia steps into his office passes in a blur. It’s slightly cheering to notice that she doesn’t have any of the signs of a woman who’s spent the night partying, unlike her visibly half-asleep companion.

After the initial exchange of pleasantries, he jumps right into it. “Lord Baras is pleased. He says it's time to zero in on your prime directive, and he awaits your contact. My office is yours; the line is secure.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

As she and Vette walk into the next room, he sits down at his console to go over the information he has about their target. There’s a lot to sift through, but much of it just needs to be collated and bulleted. Though he wishes he’d known the plan ahead of time, he’s always been good at making quick decisions. The surveillance and reconnaissance team he’s set on the Jedi’s investigator is highly skilled; thanks to the bugs they’ve placed, there isn’t a move she makes that he isn’t aware of.

Finally, he nods to himself. This will do. Anything else can be adjusted on the fly. Lady Yaellia has proven herself exceptionally skilled at that.

“...summoned Lieutenant Quinn. He’ll prepare you for your final task.”

That’s his cue. As Baras’s holo fades from view, Malavai steps in, fighting the urge to smooth down his hair. “Your final target is the Balmorran Arms Factory, recently captured by resistance forces. An incursion into the Factory will be a monumental feat. I’m excited by the prospect of you laying waste to that place.”

Vette elbows her and Yaellia perks up, face flushed and eyes gleaming. “...Oh, I excite you?”

Belatedly, he realizes his words could potentially be interpreted in a shockingly inappropriate way. If a subordinate spoke like that to him, he’d have them flogged. He all but stumbles over his next words, praying they spare him further humiliation. “W-well, what I meant was...when I imagine all the ways you will shape the galaxy, it is—very exciting, yes.”

Is it his imagination, or does she look disappointed? But there’s still that smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re all red, though.”

Red? He probably looks like a prize Kaasian tomato. “Your question was—a bit surprising, my lord. I assure you that my mind is on the task at hand.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Was it? Surprising, I mean. Here I thought you wouldn’t let anything cross you by surprise.”

“Very few things do,” he mutters. “You...seem to have a knack for it.” That’s putting it mildly. He feels better about the shock of yesterday for having slept on it, but he’s always hated the unexpected. It so rarely works out for him.

She blushes again, dropping her gaze. He’s never before been tempted to call a Sith cute. Once again, professionalism will save him. He clears his throat and asks, “May I continue to brief you on the Balmorran Arms Factory, my lord?”

”Please,” she mutters.

He continues the briefing. Again, she takes notes. But when he gets to his description of Rylon’s personal guard, she comments, “You sound like you admire them.”

There’s no judgment in her tone or in her eyes, but there doesn’t need to be. He feels ill. “Only their tactical exploits, my lord. It will be a bright day on Balmorra when they are eliminated.”

That, apparently, is that. As she nods and goes to put her datapad away, he clears his throat. “One final thing, my lord. The investigator the Jedi sent has been concentrating her activity in the area. I have her under minute-by-minute surveillance and will contact you at once if she becomes a problem.”

She smiles at him. “Sounds like a plan. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

She keeps thanking him, just for doing his duty. His gut is a hot, squirming thing. “No need to thank me, my lord. I will be here to salute you when the Balmorran Arms Factory is a smoking husk.”

“I know you will.” She turns to go, only to immediately arrest her movement and ask, “Lieutenant?”

Vette groans. Both of them ignore her. “Yes, my lord?”

She glances back at him and reaches up to fiddle with her earrings. She’s put her gold hoops back in. “I do apologize for my curiosity, but I couldn’t help but notice...that is...you have a great deal of Sith opera recordings in here. Do you have a favorite?”

The question is so unexpected that he can’t bite back an honest reply. “I think you might have done as well to ask me if I’ve a favorite limb, but I’ve always been partial to Shkai’ven Shasôt—”

Yaellia lets out a little gasp and whirls to stare at him, eyes wide. “I’ve seen that! The 400th anniversary run, at the Grand Kaas Opera House—Taral’s aria, I don’t think there was a dry eye—” She’s gesturing as she talks, presumably the cause of several datapads sliding around on his desk.

Emperor preserve him. She likes opera. In a flash of insight, he realizes why her words from the previous day had been so familiar; they’re a direct translation from the famous Soldiers’ Chorus in the second act. His parade rest has become a medical necessity, because otherwise he’d have to find a chair. “I could not be in the city for the 400th anniversary,”—he’d been here, cursing his life—“but I was fortunate enough to witness Janrit Haskerl’s first performance as countertenor for that role, and even then I can assure you there was not.” The memory brings an old pang with it; he’d been so young. His father had been alive and on leave, and not even his baby brother kicking the back of his seat had dimmed the wonder of watching the curtain go up.

She’s gazing at him with open fascination. “That must have been incredible! I can’t imagine it—you must tell me everything. Oh, but what did you think of Tev Ralon’s early years; I thought their voice has improved with age, but you know what recordings are like, it’s just not the same.”

He can’t remember the last time anyone’s asked for his opinion on any personal interests. He can’t remember the last time anyone suggested he might have personal interests. It takes him a moment to find words. “I—must agree, my lord. At first, I judged them to be rather weak and reedy, not powerful or commanding enough to sing Lord Tanari’s part with the gravitas it deserves, but I find myself glad that they were given the chance to grow into it. I suppose you never can tell.”

“Exactly!” Stars, she’s so animated it hurts to look at her. The datapads hitting the floor are a problem for later. “I haven’t been able to go to the opera since before I was sent to Korriban; I’m dying to see how it’s changed. I hear they’ve recently finished some lovely new renovations for better acoustics—and gotten rid of those dreadful jade green curtains, what were they thinking—and they’ve shuffled the stage crew around so more of them will be able to handle the Force effects. Their new conductor is no Van Chkristi, but he comes highly recommended from the Ziosti Gardens. You should go there next time you have leave!”

His ears burn. He doesn’t get that much leave, and even if he did his pay won’t stretch to the cost of a ticket anymore. Not if he also wants to buy groceries that week. But she’s so enthusiastic, so happy, he decides not to say any of that. “I will certainly consider it, my lord.”

Vette clears her throat. “Boss, maybe you wanna let him consider it while we get moving? It’s a long way to this outpost we gotta be at.”

Malavai could strangle her.

Even more so when Yaellia deflates and mutters, “Ah. Yes. Thank you for reminding me.” She shoots him a hopeful glance. “We must make time to continue this discussion later.”

Later. How long has it been since he’s had something to look forward to? The thought makes an unfamiliar bubbly feeling rise in his chest.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, and means it with all his heart.

(Opera. He supposes that goes some way towards explaining her idealism, but somehow he cannot fault her. When he was young, he’d been inspired even by the tragedies.)

The data spike he’s had planted in the Jedi investigator’s comm network is showing increased activity. Frowning, he traces it. Near the Arms Factory, and getting closer. Should he warn Lady Yaellia? No, he thinks after a moment. She’ll be at the Sundari Outpost by now, and he doesn’t want to distract her. He’s been informed there’s a new Darth in residence.

As if summoned by the mere thought of her, his comm chimes. “Lieutenant Quinn?”

He isn’t sure he likes the wary tone in Yaellia’s voice. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have you ever heard of a Darth Lachris? The—the new planetary governor.”

He’s not surprised the old one is dead—the man was never competent—but there’s a twist in his gut at the way she says it. It must have been extremely recent. “I have, my lord. She studied under Darth Marr and is a veteran of the sacking of Coruscant.”

There’s nothing but the low rumble of a speeder engine; she must be in the air. “I see,” she says eventually.

“Might I inquire as to why you’re asking?”

There’s a definite intake of breath. “Oh, I’ve just...met her, that’s all. I was curious. She wants me to—to take down Grand Marshall Jacketta—”

“—Cheketta!” Vette calls.

“—You know my auditory processing is utter pants, Vette!—so killing Commander Rylon might take a trifle longer than expected.”

He nearly suggests texting or holomail if that would be easier for her, but bites his tongue. If she hasn’t requested accommodations, it’s hardly his place. “I have every faith you will succeed, my lord.”

She lets out a sharp huff. “You honor me. I’ll be in touch.”

“I await your word, my lord.”

She hangs up first. He turns his focus to the incoming calls from his away teams, grinding his teeth. No, they are not to engage unless discovered, no matter how tempting it is. Their goal is stealth. He is relieved to find that at least they’re tracking the targets he’s sent them after. The Jedi investigator has a codename—Sunshrike—but it doesn’t match to any encrypted strings in his database. The spike they’ve uploaded is picking up her increasingly irritated comments regarding an incursion into the Arms Factory. Lady Yaellia, he thinks, and exhales. He digs deeper, hunting for more information. His tea thermos goes colder and emptier.

Where are you? Who are you?

He’s starting to develop a headache by midafternoon—he’s worked straight through lunch—but having a puzzle to unravel at least keeps his mind off of honorable Sith with a passion for opera and an unusual sense of mercy. He welcomes it. The security systems of the Arms Factory itself prove frustrating to break into, but when he finally taps into Sunshrike’s personal network he is rewarded with quiet breaths and the echos of her typing, interspersed with the occasional Republic-accented, “Damn.”

He smirks to himself. Victory.

And then Yaellia calls him, her voice shaking. “Quinn?”

His heart seizes. He doesn’t want to know what could unsettle a Sith. But he must remain calm, for her sake. “Yes, my lord?”

She gulps. “We have very—very explicit confirmation of Republic involvement. I just fought a Jedi. And where there’s one, there will likely be more.”

A Jedi. He exhales sharply, wondering if they had fought in the last war. If they’d borne his father’s blood on their hands. “I suspected as much. Your confirmation is appreciated, my lord.” He almost asks if she’s well, but he’s afraid of what he might do if she says no.

“Right,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Right. We will continue our assault, then, and contact you when the factory falls.”

There’s a click as she hangs up. He returns to Sunshrike, digging through her personal files. It takes a while, and he’s only peripherally aware of the news crackling in from the Arms Factory as he works. Republic ships are being violently decommissioned. The Resistance is in disarray. Something about a swarm of Colicoids. The Resistance Grand Marshall is dead—no, he’s only in custody. The man’s publicly denouncing the Republic and they didn’t even have to torture him first. The Balmorran “governor,” Vol Argen, is definitely dead.

At any other time, he’d celebrate. A name. Give me a name.

He doesn’t get a name. As the sun lowers outside his office he gets a tinny burst of secondhand static, and then the sound of a man speaking. Sunshrike whispers, “Finally,” to herself.

“What do we know of the enemy?” the man says, and then snaps, “I can see that, Captain. Shut up. Sith, I know why you're here. Be aware that these are the finest troops I've commanded in all my decades of duty.”

Indistinct speech. The man snorts. “My men and I would be disappointed if you did. Captain Eligyn, engage at will and hold the line. I'm coming with reinforcements. Rylon out.”

Malavai makes himself breathe evenly. After everything he’s seen Lady Yaellia do, she’ll be fine. More importantly, Sunshrike is moving. He fires off a call to his nearest squad leader. “Target is en route. Do not lose her.”

There’s a chorus of affirmatives, but he barely registers them. Sunshrike has live audio on what is almost certainly Yaellia’s confrontation with the Republic forces, and for long minutes all he can hear is the hum of sabers and the crack of blaster fire. It grows steadily louder, suggesting Rylon really is coming—alone. There is only the one set of footsteps. When the fighting dies down and the man snaps, “Enough of this. Just put him out of his misery, Sith,” Malavai tenses.

“Confess to him first,” Yaellia says flatly. “He deserves the truth.”

Shit. The worst part of it is, he’s not even surprised. Disappointed, yes—this is quite frankly the worst time her bizarre storybook-heroine tendencies could have come to the fore—but after what he’s seen of her so far he was practically expecting it. More importantly, the investigator’s position is converging on his troops. Almost there...almost...

A blaster shot rings out, and Commander Rylon sighs heavily. “It's unfortunate they were on the wrong side. They were excellent soldiers, and exceptional men. It was difficult betraying them—you can't bleed with a man and not form a bond—yet with their defeat, the Empire's cause is advanced.”

“You should have recruited them,” Yaellia says coldly.

“...I followed Baras's orders to the letter,” he mutters. “Recruitment was never my purpose here. I served for the glory of the Empire.” With a sigh, he continues, “But the life of a spy is a slippery one. In essence, I had to become a Republic soldier, and I've done things against the Empire that have sickened me.”

Yaellia takes a slow breath. “For the greater good.”

“Lieutenant!” Jillins on holo, frantic. His voice comes slightly doubled from the tap he’s put on Sunshrike. “She’s here—she has a lightsaber—”

“Delay her,” he growls.

“But she’s—she’s a Jedi—”

He could punch the man. If they weren’t separated by hundreds of kilometers, he might. Some of his rage must show on his face, because the man flinches. “Did I stutter, Jillins? You don’t need to kill her, but she must not be allowed to reach her allies!”

There’s already blaster fire in the background. Jillins whirls to return fire, barely stammering out an, “Of course, sir—” before dropping the call.

Not that it matters. He isolates that channel from the tap and amplifies the one on Rylon. He almost regrets it, because Rylon’s not dead yet.

At least his voice sounds labored. Agonized. Malavai can only hope his death is swift; he deserves that, at least. “Tell Lord Baras...it has been my great honor to serve him.”

He can’t hear Yaellia’s response, but he suspects he knows what it is. The hum of her saber is confirmation enough.

He should call her. Warn her.

But it will have to wait, because he has soldiers to direct. He hopes they remain competent under duress; their orders are very simple, but he’s learned not to underestimate the depths of their stupidity. He curses every second of comm latency as he watches the Jedi’s location draw closer.

It takes nearly half an hour before he can send a holocall to Lady Yaellia. She is bloodstained and beautiful even in the middle of some nondescript factory hallway, but he can think about that later. “My lord, we've got trouble. I heard your entire conversation with Commander Rylon.”

She draws back, frowning down at him. A lock of hair falls in her face. “Have you been spying on me, Lieutenant?”

His face burns. “No, my lord!” Not intentionally, at any rate. “As I told you, I've been surveilling the Jedi investigator—”

“...Oh,” she mutters, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Never mind, then. What’s the matter?”

He takes a breath. “She bugged Rylon's quarters. She knows everything, my lord.”

“Well, fuck,” Vette comments. He hates that he agrees.

Yaellia falls silent, staring at him. Her eyebrows knit together as she lets out a very quiet, heartfelt, “Bugger.” At a normal volume, she continues, “And now so do you. You’re in grave danger, Lieutenant.”

It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like concern. He lets out a breath. “Yes, but I pose no risk to Lord Baras. If she gets away, she'll expose everything. She was heading to her ship, but I had my men cut her off from the Republic landing bay.” He’s just gotten the report that they were successful, with only one casualty. Not Jillins, sadly. “I am systematically blocking her avenues of transmission and escape, herding that Republic scum to her only hope—the spaceport at Sobrik.”

“Sobrik?!” she demands. “That’s ours! How does she think she’s going to survive?”

“My men report that she's wielding a lightsaber, my lord. It is very likely that she is a Jedi Knight.”

If the comm wasn’t floating in midair, Yaellia would have dropped it. She jerks, eyes wide. “No.”

“Yes. Unless you stop her, she's more than capable of fighting her way through the spaceport and commandeering a ship. I'll be able to delay the Jedi long enough for you to engage, but—”

“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.

He blinks at her. “My lord?”

“Don’t even think about putting yourself in the way of that Jedi! She’ll kill you, Lieutenant. I can’t—I refuse to let that happen. Put roadblocks, keep the civilians out of the way, do not make direct contact. We have to protect the people of Sobrik!”

He swallows, recognizing the emotion coursing through him as shame. A storybook warrior. She is what Sith should be. “...I...see your point, my lord. I will gather my remaining men and meet you at the spaceport.”

She exhales. “Yes. Do that. And don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You have my word.”

It is one thing to simply put a military base on high alert for approaching hostiles. That is easy. Turning that military base into a trap for a lone Jedi while also ensuring that the civilian population is safe, and that no actual Imperial soldiers are put in harm’s way? Somewhat more difficult. The roadblocks are simple, but having the base put under lockdown requires him to stand in front of Major Pirell and play the recording of his men under attack before the order finally goes out, and by then he’s lost hours.

The only saving grace is that he’s successfully delayed the Jedi. He has time.

During a brief lull in the chaos, his comm buzzes. Outgoing transmission, reads the spike still active on the Jedi’s comm. He doesn’t hesitate before rerouting it to his own and hitting “play.”

The Jedi turns out to be a human woman, her hood half-hiding her face. Through the layer of digital noise left over from decryption, he makes out, “This is Jedi Knight Mashallon. Nomen Karr’s Padawan was correct. We have traitors in our ranks.”

He’s never even heard of Nomen Karr; individual Jedi tend to blend together in a sort of sanctimonious brown-beige haze. But if they’re a Jedi of any importance, there will be a dossier. He spends a few minutes searching until one comes up, frowning as he skims through the Jedi master’s long career. A career, he notices, that seems particularly focused on opposing Lord Baras. This could be a problem.

“Uh. Sir?”

He takes a deep breath before addressing Jillins, who’s appeared by his side on top of his lookout post when he wasn’t looking. “Report. And it had better be important.”

Jillins gulps, staring somewhere past him. “You said to alert you when Lady Yaellia or—or that Jedi gets here, and um. The Jedi’s been spotted.”

“Good. You have your orders.” He sends a quick text to confirm—yes, the barricades have been placed and the civilians are off the streets with guards stationed at regular intervals. Yaellia will be pleased.

Jillins nods stiffly. “R-right.”

They stare through their binoculars into the darkening street as the lights come on, both straining for the sight of a glowing lightsaber. Malavai squints, trying to figure out if that flicker in the far distance is a faulty streetlight. When his comm doesn’t flash with mission updates, he decides it probably is.

Jillins mutters, “I hope Lady Yaellia catches up soon. She’s amazing.”

“Have you met her, or are you drawing yet another conclusion based on secondhand information?”

Jillins flushes and stares at his feet. “Well, I haven’t met her, sir, but—she wiped out an entire rebel base by herself! And took down that Grand Marshall! That’s—that’s pretty amazing, right...?”

There’s a steady light in the distance. He raises his binoculars and spots flowing robes and a lit saber. Jedi. “You aren’t wrong,” he mutters. Stars, he’s agreeing with the boy. His life really has changed.

They wait. Mashallon’s been divested of her speeder at some point, so she creeps from shadow to shadow on foot. It’s eerie. Where any normal person in a similar situation would startle at every movement, she only glances disinterestedly when rustlings in dumpsters turn out to be rakkons. Can Jedi see through stealth generators? Sense his troops somehow? If he gives into the temptation to pull the trigger, will they all be slaughtered in an instant?

Next to him, Jillins is practically vibrating. He hisses, “Hold, Corporal.” He won’t risk it.

Mashallon crosses the empty square unimpeded. She steps into the spaceport, where she’ll find a maze of barricades and droids to slow her down. Long minutes drag by.

His datapad lets him know he has a text. Without looking, he hits the button that translates it to speech and sends it directly into his earpiece.

The electronic voice reads: “From: vette ([email protected]). To: [email protected]. Subject: We’re here, exclamation point. Text body: N/A. End message.”

He wonders why his team hasn’t informed him, but quickly realizes it’s something of a moot point. Yaellia Ivros is barreling down the street and through the square on a speeder that looks like it’s been the victim of a direct orbital strike, Vette hanging on for dear life behind her. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can barely make them out in the afterimages left by the rear lights. The rest of his soldiers have probably been similarly blinded.

He shakes his head to clear it and lifts his comm. “All hands, move out.”

Keeping a slow, measured pace is not the hardest thing he has ever done in his life, but it certainly deserves a spot on the list. Though they obviously won’t overtake Yaellia at the speed she’s moving, they can’t afford to be too late. As skilled as she is, she graduated Korriban a month ago and this is a fully-fledged Jedi Knight. She might need backup. Every instinct screams at him to run.

He walks.

The spaceport, when he reaches it, bears every hallmark of a Jedi passing through in a hurry. His team has to step, scramble, and sometimes climb over droid parts. Heavy barricades have been chopped in half. One of the locked hangar elevators has been sliced.

As he steps out of the elevator with a handful of his best men, he knows he’s precisely on time.

The Jedi’s hood has fallen back and there’s a blaster wound in her shoulder, but she’s holding her own against Yaellia’s swift strikes. Vette is crouched behind a speeder deploying a kolto spray drone, patching up Yaellia’s wounds even as they’re inflicted. As he watches, Yaellia surges forward, twists, and sends the Jedi’s blade skittering out of her hand and across the floor.

“Yield,” she growls, setting one saber at the Jedi’s throat.

Mashallon closes her eyes. “Your victory means nothing,” she murmurs. “The damage has been done. The proof has been transmitted. So, deal the deathblow, Sith. I am at peace knowing that the greater good has been served.”

In this moment, Malavai loves his job. “I hate to burst your bubble, Jedi.” He doesn’t even bother trying to stop his slow, cruel smirk. “No, that’s a lie. I’m reveling in it.”

Yaellia turns to stare at him over her shoulder, and the Jedi gasps. He could laugh. “I intercepted your transmission. You’ve been monitored and screened this entire time. The Jedi know nothing.”

Yaellia’s mouth drops open. For a split-second she just blinks at him—and then she gasps, “Lieutenant Quinn, I could kiss you!”

She doesn’t mean it. Face burning, he averts his eyes and mutters, “I was only doing my job, my lord.”

Mashallon takes a final breath, her gaze sweeping the assembled Imperials defiantly. “Gloat all you like, it means nothing. I remain at peace. And you will still fail.”

Yaellia turns back to her, her voice even. Pleasant. As though she’s asking about the weather. “The name of Nomen Karr’s padawan, if you please.”

Mashallon’s eyes narrow. “No.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “...I want you to remember I asked politely.” The saber burns a thin line in the skin of the Jedi’s neck.

The Jedi doesn’t even flinch. Her empty hands flex and then relax, her shoulders settling. “Unlike you, the Force and the Jedi way give me a sense of something larger than myself. I am resigned. Strike me down, I offer no further resistance.”

Yaellia draws in a slow breath, chest heaving. Malavai knows that the next sight he’ll see will be the Jedi’s head rolling on the floor.

And then, impossibly, she lowers her saber. “No,” she says coolly. “It would be a waste.”

What. None of Malavai’s men move. Malavai himself isn’t sure he can move. His legs have enough to do just keeping him upright. If the Republic are their enemies, the Jedi are...the Jedi are nightmares. The Great War was a thousand years ago, but none of them have forgotten the burning of libraries, the wholesale bombing of their greatest cities, the slaughter of millions. Had it not been for the element of surprise, they surely would have repeated their atrocities in the last war. Lady Yaellia would have been a child when the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, but he’s seen her files. He knows she took top marks in Sith history. She knows what the Jedi have done, what they will do again if given the chance. And yet she lets this one live?

It makes no sense. He can barely breathe.

Absurdly, he remembers a libretto he once discovered on the HoloNet. It had purported to be the text of an opera banned for centuries for un-Imperial sentiment. The central couple, and conflict, had been about a Sith sparing a Jedi’s life and the Jedi spending years trying to “bring them to the Light” in exchange. Though they’d fallen in love, it had ended in tragedy when the Sith killed them rather than lose what made them who they were, only to launch into a stirring final aria wherein they vowed to join the Jedi in memory of their lost lover. He’d given the address to the censors later, of course, but it had stuck with him. The last time he’d checked, the website had still been up.

He steps forward, resolute. “...I will take her into custody, my lord.” Surrounding the Jedi and wrapping Force-suppressant cuffs around her wrists is a simple matter, one he can do on autopilot. He’s glad for it, because while his hands and mouth move he doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing. “Your lightsaber, if you will, Jedi. Men, escort her to her new home in the main prison.”

“And treat her well,” Yaellia adds firmly, extinuishing her sabers. “Torture is notoriously unreliable, and I am under the impression that the Imperial armed forces is made of sentients, not beasts.”

Vette snorts. “Good luck with that,” she mutters.

The Jedi is marched away. Malavai remains behind. His men have this in hand, and he cannot leave until he has answers. Until he understands. When he draws close to Yaellia, she smells like smoke. He follows her gaze to his troops and murmurs, “I am sure you know what you’re doing, my lord. But sparing the Jedi is...” Insane. “A curious choice.”

She stiffens. He braces himself—has she sensed how much he’s truly questioning her? But her sabers remain unlit, and oxygen still moves through his lungs. When she turns to him, her eyes are hard as gold. He knows he’s being unfathomably rude, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

Her chin lifts. She’s challenging him as well. “The Jedi think we are monsters, Lieutenant Quinn. I refuse to prove them right.”

He almost argues. Of course the Sith are monsters. The Sith are their monsters. Carnage is her birthright, slaughter her crown. Her very creed promises strength and victory. What does she care if a Jedi judges her for knowing passion—for knowing life? For protecting her people with everything she has? But there’s a faint tremor in her shoulders, and he remembers the way she’d soothed Lieutenant Rutau and that Republic ensign alike. The way she’d granted Rylon an honorable death.

He remembers stories.

“I see,” he mutters, and looks away.

“...It's not my place, Lord Baras. I leave that for your apprentice to convey.”

It’s nearly midnight. Putting the city to rights and cleaning up the spaceport to an even semi-usable state had taken hours. He’s pretty sure the slaves and droids are still working on it. The Jedi has been placed in the most secure wing they could find. The guards had asked him when to schedule the inquisitor; he’d swallowed his gorge, been reminded of the Imperial armed forces is made of sentients, not beasts and told them it could wait a while. That he’s still upright and talking to Baras—who had demanded a report immediately—is solely due to his decades of military experience.

Yaellia’s near-emotionless voice from the doorway saves him. “I am here, master.”

She looks half dead on her feet; most likely the adrenaline crash. Vette follows her like a second shadow, positioned in such a way as to unobtrusively offer physical support.

As they enter, he stands a little straighter. She shoots him a quick glance, squares her shoulders, and does the same before bowing to Baras as deeply as she probably can without falling over.

“Nice of you to join us,” Baras snorts. “Quinn refuses to update me, insisting the privilege be yours. I assume the Jedi investigator has been stopped?”

She stares straight past him. “...She is no longer a concern, master.”

Baras grumbles, “I had hoped to avoid confronting her, but our hand was forced. What matters most is that Rylon can no longer be exposed.”

That’s right, Malavai thinks. And it’s all because of her. You have a rare find in your apprentice, my lord. And then, traitorously, You had better appreciate her.

“And how would you assess Lieutenant Quinn’s contribution?”

His parade rest is suddenly a statue’s pose. His hands clench into fists behind his back. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she dismisses him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t.

But the question seems to have the same effect on Lady Yaellia as an intravenous line of pure caffeine straight to the heart, because she jolts a little on her feet and blurts out, “Lieutenant Quinn? He’s an exceptional officer! Really, the best support I could’ve hoped for. I couldn't have done it without him! If you ask me, master, he is wasted in a place like Balmorra.”

His heart skips a beat. Baras tilts his head, studying him from behind his mask. “High praise indeed,” he says finally. “Quinn, I believe you have sufficiently repaid the debt owed to me. I'm putting you up for a captaincy and transmitting an executive order allowing you to station wherever you choose. You are dismissed.”

He can feel his mouth moving and knows words must be coming out, knows he’s thanking Lord Baras and expressing his sincere gratitude. His mind is a thousand light-years away. A captaincy. Freedom. I’ll never need to step foot on this blasted rock again. I could go anywhere—could make a real difference for the Empire—I could go home—

Lady Yaellia is looking at him. Heart hammering in his chest, he bows to her. “My lord, before I depart, it's been my extreme honor to serve you.” Swallowing hard, he adds, “You are...you are the epitome of everything the Empire stands for.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not even an exaggeration. Honor. Strength. Order. As odd as some of her decisions have been, she displays every Imperial virtue. More than that, she inspires other people to follow her example—or at the very least, she should. He can’t imagine the sort of person who would purposely disappoint her when she holds even her own actions to such high standards.

And she flushes dark at his words. He can’t bear it. “The honor has been mine.” She pauses, and a tired smile breaks across her face. “Captain Quinn. I shall miss you.”

“Maybe our paths will cross once more, my lord,” he murmurs. He can’t look at her face anymore.

As he leaves, Vette turns to call over her shoulder, “We’ll probably be off this rock by tomorrow afternoon!”

So there’s a time limit. And then she will be gone, and he’ll probably never see her again. The thought is a knife to his heart.

He walks home, the wind ruffling his hair and stinging his nose. He doesn’t smell smoke anymore. When he reaches his street, the whole building is dark and quiet, and his apartment feels like a tomb. He stands in the doorway and thinks that he should be overjoyed at this unexpected good fortune. He should be celebrating. At the very least, he should make himself a cup of tea; he doubts he’ll be getting much sleep anyway.

Instead he sits at his kitchen table and stares out the window. There’s a light on in the apartment across the way. He wonders what they’re doing, if they were on duty tonight. If they’ve had their life irrevocably changed by any young, idealistic Sith lately.

“The honor has been mine.”

He wants it to be insincere. A lie, a trick, something. Who says that? No, he rephrases, what kind of Sith says that? He knows he shouldn’t trust it. If he was as intelligent as he likes to think he is, he’d be glad to see the back of her. Honor never lasts, no matter what the stories say. Fiction is fiction for a reason; the greatest Sith, those who made the galaxy quake at their whims, cared nothing for the lives of ants like him.

But.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees her tired smile. Hears the way she gushed about him to Baras, her eyes shining. Remembers the desperation in her voice when she’d told him not to risk himself against the Jedi. “I refuse to let that happen,” she’d said. As though he matters. As though he, Malavai Quinn, thirty-seven years old and a disgraced lieutenant on one of the most backwater rocks in Imperial space, with no status or influential allies or access to any particularly juicy blackmail, is important. Not because of what he can do for her or who he is connected to, but because he is a person.

He is suddenly furious. Where were you ten years ago, twenty years ago?! Where were you when I was new? How dare you come to me now, Yaellia Ivros? But even as he balls his hands into fists to stop them shaking, he imagines how that would have went. Twenty-seven year old Malavai had been going through the worst year of his life—his father’s death, Druckenwell, the war’s unceremonious end—and he wouldn’t have appreciated being reminded that such things as hope and decency existed in the galaxy. Seventeen-year-old Malavai frankly doesn’t bear thinking about; he’d been an insufferable teenager, and she probably would have stabbed him. He can’t say he would have complained. It would have been normal.

Then again, normal isn’t a word he can truthfully use to describe her. Despite the incredible results she gets, he knows her methods won’t make her popular. He can’t imagine even Baras approving. Then again, he also can’t imagine her letting his disapproval change anything. His heart is racing, and he’s not sure whether it’s terror or something else. She really could change the galaxy. If she lives.

If.

His heart sinks. Sith politics will eat her alive. Stars, if Baras finds out how she interprets his orders he’ll probably eat her alive. He tries to imagine a galaxy without her, without her lightning-fast sabers and strange sense of compassion and the sheer joy she takes in opera. Without the change she effects everywhere she goes just by existing. It should be easy; he’s only known her for a few days, and they’ve barely spoken. They are nearly strangers.

He wants to change that. He can change that; he’s a captain now, he can take any posting he wishes. He can find her ship, join her crew, serve at her side. For the first time in a decade, he can do anything.

By the time he wakes the next morning, he has made his decision.

Everything he owns fits into two suitcases. He could probably narrow it down to one, but he remembers sparkling gold eyes and decides to pack every music-related disc he has. He showers and shaves with particular care; after a brief internal debate over whether he should wear his dress uniform, he settles for his best everyday one instead. Too formal and he’ll appear ridiculous instead of sincere, and he can’t bear for her to think he’s not taking this seriously. He makes himself a cup of decaf tea before he leaves.

Afternoon, Vette had said, but he has no idea what a Twi’lek considers afternoon and he barely slept last night out of fear of somehow missing their departure entirely. It’s 1100 on the dot when he makes his way into the hangar at a brisk walk, looking for the ship registered under Yaellia’s name.

Fortunately, it’s impossible to miss. The Zhasanai’s Grace is a sleek Fury-class Interceptor, a very common model, but instead of the standard gray she’s been painted bright red with jagged black lines reminiscent of traditional Zabrak tattoos. Zhasanai, he recalls, is also a Zabrak name. He wonders who Yaellia named her ship for, and if she’d tell him if he asked. He suspects she would. As he approaches, his attention is caught by droids loading pallets of supplies into her cargo hold, followed by a chauffeur steering a cherry-red four-door Manta Landspeeder the size of a Cartel skiff in with them. Last night’s death trap was clearly the first thing she could grab; this is the sort of speeder he would have expected Yaellia to fly.

None of the workers pay him any mind. He stands at a loose parade rest and waits next to his suitcases.

And waits. After a while, he finds himself fighting the urge to scroll through his datapad. He hasn’t had time to catch up with the news in a while, and this is around the time of year when the drafts start for cricket season. But if Lady Yaellia sees him acting so frivolously in public, the sheer embarrassment will probably kill him before any of her enemies get the chance.

He’s started to lose track of how long he’s been waiting by the time the elevator opens to reveal her standing inside it. She’s got one arm looped through the handle of a Sobrik Spaceport gift bag and the other through Vette’s; at first he can’t make out what they’re talking about, but then he realizes she’s supplementing her side of the conversation with ISL when words fail her and upgrades his mental portfolio of her to include has exceedingly strong opinions on spaceport food. His mouth does something so unfamiliar he has to pause to recognize it as a smile.

When she sees him, the ISL stops and her face lights up. “Captain Quinn! Did you come to see us off?”

He bows as deeply to her as he would to Lord Baras. “My lord,” he murmurs. “I hope you don't find my appearance here obtrusive. I beg an audience.”

She blinks, and then nods. “Of course.”

He takes a deep breath. He should have practiced this speech, but even now that it’s happening part of his brain can’t believe it. “My reassignment is an evolution I've longed for, but I assumed it would never come. Aiding you on this planet—it has reawakened the ambition I began my career with, to make the most profound impact possible for the Empire.”

Before he can second-guess himself, he drops to one knee and bows his head. Yaellia chokes. “Captain Quinn!”

The spaceport floor is freezing through the thin fabric of his uniform trousers and badly in need of a power-washing. Someone’s dropped used chewing gum not half a meter away. Yaellia’s boots need polishing, and one of Vette’s is coming untied. He notices all of this only because his heart is pounding like an artillery bombardment and if he looks up he thinks he might faint. That would certainly not help his case.

Breathe. In for three, hold, out for five. Hating the tremor in his voice, he continues, “I cannot think of a more glorious and honorable way to make a difference in the galaxy than to serve you.”

She makes a noise like a dying gundark. He risks a brief glance upwards and finds her with both hands clasped to her mouth, her face absolutely scarlet. She seems to be beyond words.

His mouth goes dry. He has to make her see. “I'm here to pledge myself to you. I'm ready and willing to serve in—in whatever capacity you see fit.”

“Whatever capacity?” It is very close to a squeak. “That’s—really?”

“Oh, stars,” Vette mutters. “And I thought you two flirting over snooty musicals was bad—”

Yaellia kicks her sharply in the ankle. It would be funny if it wasn’t also mortifying.

He’s talking more quickly now. He knows he sounds desperate—undignified—but he can’t stop. He’s so close, he knows it. “My lord, if given the chance, I know I will prove myself to you. I'm a top-notch pilot, military strategist and a deadly shot. I can fly this ship, plan your battles, assess your enemies and kill them. You won't find a more tireless and loyal subject. I will dedicate every ounce of my strength to your cause.” Please. That Twi’lek can’t protect you alone, not from the kinds of threats you’ll be facing. You need me.

She’s still staring at him as though she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “...Captain Quinn,” she says carefully. “Are you sure about this?”

A voice, gentle yet firm. Words straight from myth. Nobility he’s only ever dreamed about. The absolute certainty that all of that stands balanced on a razor’s edge, and she will need all the help he can give if she’s not going to be sliced to ribbons.

He can only answer honestly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, my lord.”

Her chest swells with her deep breath, and it’s not his imagination that has her back straightening. She is noble in more than just her actions, after all. Fealty is her birthright. “Then I accept your service.” Her serious tone is utterly at odds with the grin that spreads across her face as she adds, “Besides, who else would I talk about opera with? I haven’t forgotten.”

He actually had. “Um,” he starts, dropping his gaze. “It would be an honor—”

A hand appears in his field of vision. It takes him a moment of confusion to realize Yaellia is offering to help him to his feet. “Now, do get up off the floor. I don’t want to think what it’s doing to your knees.”

He has a split second to think This is inappropriate, I mustn’t before his hand comes up entirely of its own accord to wrap around hers. It’s warm even through their respective gloves, and she only has to take half a step backwards to haul him to his feet. If he’d been shorter, it would be effortless. There’s a moment before he fully straightens where his eyes meet hers, and the expression in them is one he cannot bear to name.

But neither can he look away. She has yet to let go of his hand, and it’s frozen him in place like a tractor beam. “My lord,” he starts. You’ve given me my life back. You’ve given me hope. How else can I repay you?

“My captain,” she murmurs. Her voice wasn’t even this soft with Lieutenant Rutau, and that man had nearly lost a foot. Malavai just has a mildly sore knee.

Vette chooses this exact moment to ask, “Is this all your stuff?”

He jerks away from Yaellia like he’s been burnt, turning the full force of his glare on the Twi’lek. “Indeed.”

Yaellia looks over his suitcases with a judgmental eye, but when she turns back to him she’s smiling again. “We’ll get you set up right away, never fear. I can’t wait to give you a tour of the ship.” She pauses. “Ah, do feel free to make any adjustments to the cockpit you want. It might be a bit cramped in there otherwise.”

This time, he knows he’s smiling back. “...Thank you for giving me this opportunity, my lord. I will submit my reassignment papers as we depart.”

And he steps onto the Zhasanai’s Grace, ready to begin his new life.

Worldbuilding/headcanon notes:

- Quinn's love of opera comes from the fact that one of the Imperial Memorabilia gifts you can give him (his favorite type of gift) is a Sith Opera Collection. (The fact that another gift in that category is Banned Imperial History Document says a few things...) - Quinn & Yael are both super autistic. Quinn does not know this about himself. Boy You Gon' Learn. - His baby brother, Zeiran, is ~8 years younger than him and an Imperial Intelligence agent. They have not spoken since Druckenwell. - I am at least 95% sure I read the timeline right and Druckenwell/the battle of Rhen Var (Col. Rymar Quinn's death)/the Treaty of Coruscant happened in the same year. Please nobody tell me if I'm wrong. - Lord Venditor is my friend's OC! Unbeknownst to Quinn, he is a sad wet dog of a man.

#swtor #sith #malavai quinn #paladin writes stuff #darth baras #yaellia #vette #quinn is SO confused lol #“what is this?” “respect” “sounds fake”#star wars

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