EFFICIENCY

The days were long in Balmorra. More often than naught, Malavai found himself only half-focused on the endless outpouring of reports. However, today he was making a concentrated effort not to become distracted. The first item on his queue was a medical report. There was a resurgence of Balmorran Flu in the frontlines between Bugtown and Markaran Plains. He tagged the medical serial codes to retrace the flu vaccine's supply chain. He soon coupled those affected by the flu with a single shipment of the vaccine. Be it sabotage or inefficiency the supply was useless, he slated the entire shipment for destruction and recommended re-inoculation for the entire infected regiment.

Usually resolving bureaucratic oversights like these made him feel better about his work, but he had a feeling nothing would fix current mood. Every time he stamped the date next to his signature it drove the point home: today marked ten years of exile in Balmorra.

Another report opened up: The effectiveness of the colicoid gassing squadrons in Bugtown had dropped six points since switching to a new insecticide compound. The switch had been cleared due to a survey team's environmental concerns. Unacceptable. The typed up an official response making the case that a swift annihilation would preserve more of the environment than a prolonged campaign with deficient weapons. He pressed his holoscreen to stamp the completed report.

Ten years...

Ten years languishing in obscurity.

Another report from Corporal Jillins caught his attention. Lift damage in Gorinth Canyon was delaying the reconstruction of the main gorge bridge. His clever blue eyes immediately read between the lines. This was the third request for an extension followed by a demand for increased resources by the foreman. He quickly pulled up the man's history records. Malavai could tell a large portion of the file had been poorly falsified. Irritation flashed through his mind. Jillins should have caught this, but no, here he was doing his underling's job for him. Moreover, instead of staying to supervise the lift repair, he had taken a shuttle back to Sobrik. The man was useless!

He flagged the foreman as a separatist sympathizer and drafted an arrest order listing the foreman and every member of his known family. He suggested a thorough interrogation of all parties and seizure of any underage members of the household. He scanned the order for errors before sending it to his CO for approval and implementation. He signed the report and stamped it once more.

Nearly a third of my life wasted in this forsaken world. Every man initially under my command promoted above me...

Each submission felt like another nail on his coffin, yet he didn't once consider taking the rest of the day off. His career was as good as dead but it had left behind a hyper-efficient ghost that still clung to routine.

A request from Sobrik central command popped up on his screen interrupting his dark thoughts. An outbreak of metal parasites had been found at the Troida Military Workshop. They'd gnawed through the grated floors and dropped barrels of toxic waste deep into the sub-basement. They were requesting three officers to oversee the slaves tasked with clean up. Quinn smirked darkly and assigned Jillins with the honor. That should be a simple enough task for him.

He's an incompetent buffoon that will make Captain by two years' time.

His gloved hands clenched into fists and he opened the bulletin feed if only to keep his thoughts from dwelling on every bad decision that led him to this moment.

[- A fault in the Sobrik's shielding systems has resulted in loss of power to the main generators. All available power has been rerouted in order to maintain shield integrity. Expendable systems will be at 25% efficiency until the fault has been repaired, this includes most of Sobrik's central air scrubbers and street lighting. The air pollution cap will be raised by 75% for the foreseeable future. Officers are tasked with adjusting their day to day operations to accommodate the change. This includes doubling the third and fourth evening patrols... -]

His fingers twitched and he forced himself not to verify his own quarter's air quality. He berated his jittery nerves all the while reminding himself that his own air-scrubber was functioning adequately. As long as he kept his front door sealed and remained indoors, he would not have to resort to the humiliation of requesting a respirator from the fleet medic.

The first few days in Sobrik, Quinn had learned that his throat responded to Balmorra's industrial pollution by closing up and making breathing nigh impossible. A thick enough haze would sting his eyes and effectively blind him.

The void take me! What sort of officer gets jumpy over an environs update?!

He marked the bulletin as noted before switching to the next item in his queue, but his focus had firmly been diverted to his own failings. He heard his father's voice berating him.

"You're thin as a rail and the most weak-willed creature I've ever had the displeasure of encountering. The only use the Imperial Army will get out of you is as fodder. You are in a word, Malavai, useless. Useless as a soldier, useless as a son, useless as human being. But useless or not even a worm can serve. And you will serve until you work off the precious oxygen you're using up!"

At thirteen these were the last words Malavai heard from his father, Colonel Rymar Quinn. The Colonel was never one for affection or sentiment. From the day Malavai was born his, father had tallied a long list of perceived slights and he'd made no secret of what he thought of his son. For the most part the boy had taken after his mother's family in build and temperament. This alone had been unforgivable. Nevertheless, he shared his father's looks down to the shock of blue in his eyes and the birthmark on his cheekbone. It was just enough to keep him from being cast out as a bastard but little else.

Is mood effectively soured, he pushed away from his desk and brushed a hand over his face. Anxiety, shame, and half a dozen other sources of stress reared their ugly heads within his thoughts. It wasn't as though he even heard from his family since his demotion. According to the last Imperial census they were all alive and relatively well so their silence was simply a result being effectively disowned.

How comforting.

He'd always been too small, too slender, and too hesitant to be a true Quinn. All this could have been forgiven had he truly taken after his mother's so-called 'lineage'. Atalia had been a young girl from a low ranking military family searching for a quick social climb when she'd met Colonel Quinn. Her family claimed to have Sith in their bloodline opening up the possibility of a force sensitive offspring for any man who would wed their daughter. Though the Colonel had been an older man, Atalia had seen him as an opportunity. He was efficient, hard-working, in a word: driven. She'd counted on his talents to ensure her own future place as the Moff's wife and everything that came with it. They were perfect for each other: headstrong, ambitious, calculating...

...haughty, materialistic, shallow, impulsive...

Quinn couldn't help the prickle of resentment that coursed through his veins at the memory of his parents. Both had chosen to make him the vessel of their collective failings.

Their arrogance had led them to believe they had a chance of raising a force-sensitive child but it was not to be. Perhaps the bloodline had become too diluted. Perhaps -as Malavai suspected- Atalia's supposed Sith parentage had been falsified all along. Whatever the reason, he was born wanting. Despite all of their eugenics treatments, Malavai was born Force-blind. Rymar's mistake had been not fully researching his future bride's lineage.

Malavai's childhood was marred by his futile attempts at getting his parent's affection and constant reminders of exactly how much of a disappointment he was. His father had been particularly hard on him, attempting to beat and stim him into a juggernaut now that all hopes of him developing into a Sith were non-existent. The earliest memories of his mother were those of a woman who occasionally pet his head in between society luncheons and trips downtown. As far as Atalia was concerned, she had fulfilled her duty and given Rymar a son; a defective, regrettable, useless son, but an heir all the same. Malavai often reflected that his mother had cared more for her miniature akk dog than her own son. At least the akk dog received some form of affection. Atalia never had any interest in raising children. Her sights were set on the higher alcoves of the Kaasian social strata and more importantly, her own rising influence.

The clock beeped noon and he stood feeling somehow both numb and raw at the same time. He took a steadying breath before marching to the mess hall. His thoughts churned careening towards their inevitable dark abyss.

He had always been little more than a damaged bauble. His mother's meteoric aspirations burned up soon after his thirteenth birthday. Just as Rymar had made a mistake in choosing his bride, Atalia's error would be underestimating her husband's commitment to the Empire.

Soon after Rymar voiced his utter disillusionment in his son's prospects, the Battle of Rhen Var reached a vicious crescendo ending in a devastating defeat for the Empire. In the turbulent aftermath of that shameful defeat, the list of casualties seemed to go on and on. After days of silence surrounding his father's command the news finally broke: Rymar Quinn, decorated colonel and loyal son of the Empire was no more. Overnight, Atalia became an aging widow with the burden of a son.

Fading looks she could have survived. Even playing the devout patriotic widow would have had merit. But who would ever be willing to raise another man's spawn?

Quinn took a seat in the far end of the mess hall. No one approached him. No one ever spoke to him unless it was required. He liked to tell himself he preferred it that way. A layer of distance was required between himself and everyone else on Balmorra if only for professionalism. He idly picked at his rations of which today consisted of a white reconstituted slab in a clear broth that tasted vaguely like seafood.

Alone with his demons, he wondered if perhaps his mother's less than stellar parenting was at fault for his utter lack of social skills. He could hardly catalog her as the doting sort. With her ambitions crippled, he remembered how quickly she'd turned her fury towards the 'source' of her strife. Her previous apathy was replaced with abuse. That distant woman who had slipped in and out of Malavai's perception eventually became a source of dread. Punishment was doled out swiftly for the slightest of offenses or perceived disrespect. Forcing him to stand in the rain during the frequent Kaasian storms was a favorite go-to for her. Were it not for the intervention of their protocol droid, Malavai was sure he would have succumbed to hypothermia every other week. Still, the woman was her mother. It was normal to want her approval… wasn't it?

"Can you believe it?" Jillins voice echoed nearby cutting into Quinn's thoughts. "Told my parents about my reassignment to the Troida factory today, they're so proud! Dad says the most cutting edge weapons come from Troida and mum says she'll send an extra care package next week to get me through the assignment. Didn't have the heart to tell her it won't be permanent."

Quinn's grip on his utensils tightened and he was rather shocked to realize he hated Jillins. He didn't usually spare such strong emotions for a simpleton of an underling. Granted there were things he disliked to various degrees. Flippancy in one's duty was abhorrent for the obvious reasons. He didn't much care for Huttball or the sordid goings on in Sobrik's cantina. Hatred however, was usually something that grew in slow increments like a hole worn into his skin. To this day he could not stand rain-soaked clothes, or the icy chill of winter. He'd learned to hate the tasteless porridge which had been his sole source of food as a child and the cloying scent of spiced vanilla that clung to his mother's robes…

Yet here he was sitting opposite a man easily half his age who was surrounded by friends as he basked in his meager non-accomplishments. When he took into account the idea that this incompetent fool also had his parent's approval, all Malavai could think of was how satisfying it would be to slit the corporal's throat. That was a quick hatred indeed. It all came so easily to Jillins, Quinn couldn't help but wonder if this was all a great cosmic joke on him. He was talented and efficient, surely he should have been able to succeed.

However, thinking back he realized that academy life had not been kinder to him though it offered more stability than his mother's moods. He had no father, no connections, no allies or friends. Through trial and error, Malavai quickly learned how to avoid the bigger, more popular boys all of whom seemed to take a dark sort of glee out of his humiliation. If nothing else, facts and numbers came easily to him and they became a form of comfort from the human chaos all around him. While he was praised his quick mind and brilliant compositions, it was increasingly clear he would never see the battlefield. Despite his academic prowess, he could never quite shake the stench of failure as he only marginally passed the physical trials.

"Military strategist?!" her mother had fumed as her read the Academy's assessment of his skills, "You've sullied this family's good name with your pathetic performance! Your father did not rise through the ranks from behind a desk! You dishonor his memory! If he weren't already dead he would certainly die from the shame!"

A part of Malavai now understood her frustrations had come from being thwarted yet again but it didn't ease the sting of her words. Infantry soldiers were blaster fodder, but those who kept their head about them were revered. The Quinn family had a long tradition of plowing through the battlefield and emerging as decorated heroes. His mother had been vying to use him as a foothold if only to regain some of her social status. However, once again, Malavai proved to be a disappointment. Rather than the potential route of honor and glory, he was slated to become a bureaucrat: one of the countless faceless drones working within the fleet and buried in obscurity. Perhaps all the more galling was the fact that she lacked the necessary connections to influence the Academy's final assessment...

Envy, is unbecoming of an Imperial Officer.

He forced himself to ignore the others and finish his meal. It tasted like sand to him. At 12:25 he made his way back to his post before resuming his duties at exactly 12:29. He began sorting through his new assignments before sending out orders to his unit. He shifted his priorities to accommodate his superior's demands only stopping once he was sure his entire unit was fulfilling the Empire's goals at peak efficiency.

It burned up all of forty minutes. He felt his eye twitch in irritation. Once again, he had proven to be overqualified for his post. Alone with his idle thoughts, he returned to the monotony of his reports. He would have to take his time with these lest he run out of work before the day ended.

Though he often asked for extra responsibilities, he'd found his superiors were reluctant to give him more lest he found a way to usurp their authority through unconventional means. As though he'd ever stoop that low. His career was a failure, yes, but it was not one tainted with dishonor despite what his file stated.

It was no secret he was ambitious. His first assignment had been to the conscription office. Back then his genetically pleasing looks had been both a blessing and a curse. While they guaranteed a high recruitment rate for him, it didn't bode well when his superiors had consisted almost entirely of women. He'd believed professionalism would spare him the worst of their attentions but, of course, that had only encouraged them. The knowledge that all new recruits were expected to 'serve' their superiors in any condition was little comfort. They thought it a game, of course, to let it become common knowledge that Corporal Quinn was command's favorite plaything. He supposed some men would have enjoyed the privilege, Malavai learned to just barely tolerate the experience. Through it all he managed to make inroads with the few that didn't see him as a bed warmer and eventually transferred to a promising post on the analytics department of an Imperial cruiser.

He was a tireless worker and fortunate enough to catch Lieutenant Ovech's eye. In spite of the age difference they struck a partnership which eventually grew to be one of Malavai's scant friendships. Together they rose the ranks quickly. Quinn remembered receiving his first captaincy within the first year. Ovech liked to joke that he'd be working for Quinn in six months' time. He wondered what had become of his one-time friend.

Quinn stared at his screen without seeing the words. It had been ten years since he'd seen Captain Ovech, no doubt he was probably Major Ovech by now. He couldn't blame the man for keeping his distance after… well after everything.

After Drukenwell being associated with me was professional suicide. He would have lost everything had he…

Had he what? Had he visited? Called? Written? Once again a potentially good memory was tainted with bitterness but even then he had to admit that he wouldn't have gotten as far as he had without Ovech's help. Ovech had been the one to deduce that stim use in Quinn's childhood had damaged his respiratory system. Ovech been the one to diagnose and secretly formulate adequate treatment for him. Coupled with his own hard work and strict discipline, Quinn managed to overcome his weak constitution and came out with a new interest in advanced medical training. With Ovech's encouragement he supplemented his skills with medical training and was subsequently promoted to Major. His fortunes seemed to have finally turned. He had rank, respect, recognition. He was even on speaking terms with his mother. He could have made Colonel by the time he was twenty-nine, a good six years younger than his father had been when he received the title.

Then came Drukenwell and it all went to hell...

Pride was to be his downfall: pride in being right, pride in accomplishment, and pride in serving a greater purpose. Even now, humiliated, demoted, and exiled, Malavai refused to apologize for his supposed crimes. He had saved the fleet and countless Imperial lives. He, not Broysc, had turned the tide of the battle and snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

He would never apologize no matter how long he spent rotting in a backwater hole.

His single-headed defiance was of course what doomed him. To be so emboldened had been foolish considering that, despite all his merits, Quinn had few 'connections'. Moff Broysc on the other hand, had powerful friends and the old man had become obsessed with making an example of the upstart in his ranks.

The charges read at his court martial practically amounted to mutiny. Mutiny was treasonous and Quinn was under no delusions as to what that meant: painful interrogation followed by execution provided he survived said interrogation. He would have been a fool not to be afraid. Though he attempted to keep a stoic demeanor he could see Broysc practically salivating at the sentencing. He gloated from behind the tribunal's podium, taking a wicked sort of pleasure at seeing Malavai brought in with metal restraints.

For a few terrifying moments, Quinn was sure he had seen his last sunrise.

Were it not for Darth Baras...

He'd known there was a Sith lord present to oversee the proceedings as was customary in every military tribunal. Nevertheless it was considered a fool's errand to appeal to a Sith's sense of compassion. Darth Baras must have sensed Quinn's dread. For whatever reason, he had intervened the moment the guilty verdict was read. The tribunal had fallen into a stunned silence as the Sith overturned the conviction on a whim. He remembered the flood of relief and gratitude that filled him when Lord Baras stepped forth and berated Broysc for fumbling the Battle of Drukenwell and then blaming a subordinate. Ultimately, Darth Baras reduced his punishment to demotion and reassignment to Balmorra.

Ten years ago today.

Malavai closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as another report was dispatched from his queue. He didn't know why he tormented himself with memories of the past. It certainly wouldn't change anything and he doubted he would ever be in a position to apply any lessons learned. He was alive. All that ever mattered in Balmorra was staying one step ahead of the Colicoids or the blasted rebels or the odd Jedi that chose to infiltrate Sobrik's defenses. He'd lasted a decade but whether that was a testament to his survival skills or self-loathing was still to be determined.

Still he knew… he was keenly aware that every breath of air his defective lungs drew since his court martial was owed to Darth Baras. It was a debt he would never be able to fully pay off. Soon after he was released from Imperial prison he had knelt before Darth Baras and pledged his life to him. At that point, the action had been little more than an afterthought. Darth Baras owned him from the moment he saved him from the gallows. His pledge was simply an affirmation that knew his place and recognized Darth Baras as his master. Come what may, Quinn would be fiercely loyal to the man who had rescued him.

The workday now over Quinn powered down his station. He made no move to leave as he remained staring at the date stamp being displayed on his data pad. He'd been so eager to please, so utterly dedicated to serving Darth Baras, it had come as a surprise when he was seemingly abandoned to his own devices.

Ten years.

In the past decade Darth Baras had only contacted him a handful of times and it was always to request his services as a liaison to one of the Sith's countless spies. Did Darth Baras really think this was all he was good for? Far be it for Quinn to make demands of his master, but ten years had passed! Ten years of patient loyalty. Ten years of unquestioning obedience. Ten agonizing years of languishing on Balmorra all the while looking on as lesser men climbed the ranks to bigger and better things!

It was all Malavai could do to stifle the terrible thought that his master meant for him to die here.

His heart raced and he stormed to his quarters. Uncertainty made him grasp at routine all the more if only to keep the demons at bay. He went to the tap and poured himself a glass of water to steady his nerves. A part of him wanted something stronger, but it was 17:00 and he needed to begin his evening workout. If nothing else, punching an inanimate object was supposed to help him relieve the anxiety. By the time 19:00 beeped on his data pad, Malavai was exhausted and drained. He stepped into the refresher wishing his failure could wash away as easily as the day's grime.

Would he be here twenty years later, his this same little room railing against the forces that be and cursing his luck? Would he be here thirty… forty years? Or would he finally break one day and walk out into the nearest battlefield with nothing but blaster and four rounds of ammo?

He emerged dripping from his shower and felt no better than he had hours ago. He hadn't felt well in a long time. With cold resignation, he walked up to one of his storage shelves and unstopped a bottle of cheap Balmorran grog. It was little more than watered down moonshine but the effect would be enough to drown out his mind's incessant chatter. He would regret it tomorrow when his entire charade of a life played itself out again like a worn holorecording. He couldn't stand the thought of being alone and sober with his thoughts a moment longer. Not tonight... Perhaps, not any other night ever again.

Late into the night when he had crumpled onto his barrack in a drunken stupor, Quinn failed to notice the new message on his data pad. It was a letter from Darth Baras regarding a new assignment and informing him of a new apprentice arriving in a week's time.

Psyneko: I tried to channel what Quinn's state of mind would be after 10 years in stagnation. Turns out, he'd be a anxiety-ridden, depressive alcoholic. It's ok though, his life gets better later on. Unless you were a total jerk to him in-game. If that is the case you are a heartless bastard and you probably enjoy kicking puppies in the face!