My first venture into writing Star Wars outside of the Mandalorian, oh boy!
I love Fox so much, and I have not stopped thinking about him for a while. So I guess putting him through some shit is the way I cope with that.
The "theme" song for this fic is The Perfect World by Marty Friedman. It's a certified bop.
Chapter warnings: Canon typical violence with background character death, some injuries, and a suicide attempt under mind manipulation.
Enjoy!
Quinlan's contact seems to have double booked.
He makes the observation with a sarcastic snort that gets drowned out by the thoom of the industrial compactors on 1997. Warm sparks trickle down from up above, clinging onto his cloak before meeting a sizzled end. It's a familiar rhythm that has become background in all the days he's spent scouting out Level 1996.
It's far down enough that his potential informants don't get spooked off by the possibility of running into the authorities. The Coruscant Security Force, made entirely of natborns, wouldn't be caught dead down here. Police droids would get cannibalized the moment they touched the ground. Only the Coruscant Guard are assigned to patrol in the mid to lower levels and even then, shifts are scarce.
Quinlan can understand that; not many would survive a night down here.
Still, 1996 holds a soft spot in his ever-growing list of meet points. It's low but not low enough to make his contacts wonder if it's a death trap. The air is still breathable, even if heavily saturated with the stench of burning metal on days when the vents are down. Which would be every other day. It's even worse on evac days. The tightly shut sluice gates would open all at once, industrial wastewater and boiling steam flooding out into the void of 1995.
No one knows what happens down in 1995.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the rare moments of crisp wind tugging at his dreads gently. He looks back down at the quiet shadow making their way towards the warehouse at the end of the block.
The warehouse that Quinlan is supposed to meet his contact at.
He hops down from his perch on the building across, boots silent as he lands on the catwalk below. 1996 is also one of his favorites due to the number of vantage points. It's a maze of elevated platforms and pipes filled with hot water used to fuel the industrial plants on 1997. With an intricate mess of narrow pathways with many gaps to slip in and out of, Quinlan's found just about every spot where he can spy on the main street without being seen.
The uninvited guest doesn't take the main entrance. Quinlan stalks closer, watching the cloaked figure scale the wall and creep in through a broken window.
Thoom .
He takes a deep breath, letting the Force take the lead. It seeps inside, exploring the area with a light touch. Quinlan senses his contact's signature, impatient and the slightest bit apprehensive, hovering near the third-floor balcony, next to the stairs. Exactly where Quinlan had told him to meet.
He's an information broker according to one of Quinlan's other sources. Supposedly, he had a widespread network that gave him access to Separatist plans. The smaller-scale ones mainly. The stuff that can be just as harmful as full-frontal assaults, but largely overlooked. And apparently, someone's been buying this information with Republic intelligence. Data that isn't common knowledge nor produced by simple inference. The little rat would take it and run right back to sell the information to the Separatists.
Quinlan's main concern isn't the gain of Separatist data; it's the loss of Republic security in exchange. Someone, someone high-up, is selling the Republic out. Yet, it's definitely a puzzling situation. Why would the traitor ask for Separatist intel in return instead of credits? What kind of information had they been trading?
Tonight's meeting with the informant is supposed to shed some light on the matter. Quinlan had heard the rat's losing ground in the underworld. The two-timing bastard's been getting snitched on, and there's a growing bounty on his head.
That's when Quinlan had quietly dropped his (burner) contact information along the grapevine, offhandedly advertising his skills in helping people on the run go off-grid. It had only taken two days before the rat was in his comms.
Quinlan would help him disappear, and he would give up his Republic contact in one last information exchange.
Well, Quinlan is definitely going to help the guy disappear. Straight into some dark cell for the Guard to pry every last drop of information out of. His network is in shambles anyway; he wouldn't be useful for new sources anymore. He would disappear, but only after Quinlan's done with him first.
But now there's the added interference of the third person.
The Force rumbles in what Quinlan could only describe as a perturbed manner. The signature of the unknown figure is...familiar. He can't place it at the current moment, but he's felt it before on Coruscant.
He's met the traitor before.
The thought sits in his stomach weirdly, but this isn't what has the Force swirling.
It's the lack of feeling.
At first, Quinlan had thought maybe it was because he had been too far away, even if he had clearly felt the informant's emotions from across the building.
Even now, as he vaults over the catwalk railing and onto the warehouse balcony, he only senses the informant. The other is a nonspecific blip in the general area of the building.
He finds the broken window that the shadow had gone through earlier, and slips in without upsetting the shattered edges. The level shakes with another thoom , and the glass shivers before going still again.
The informant stands against the staircase railing, one leg bouncing while looking around nervously.
It's easy for Quinlan to wave an arm, warping the space around himself in the subtlest of ways. No one is here. The Force urges out calmly, and the contact turns away from Quinlan's direction completely.
Both of them tense when the figure leaps from high up, the air singing with the fluttering of their cloak. They land near-silent, right in front of the contact.
" Kriff, easy on the jump scares will you? You're early." The informant scowls, brushing nonexistent dust from his jacket. The figure is turned away from Quinlan, but he can see the straight line of their shoulders, stiff and unmoving.
He still can't grasp anything in the Force beyond their familiar signature.
The informant finally looks up, and the jarring shift in his emotional field slices through Quinlan like knives. He sees the terror dawning on the rat's face as he takes a couple of steps away from the cloaked figure.
"Y-you're—the fucker set me up!" He accuses, a shaking finger pointing at the shadow. He knows them then, Quinlan frowns, sneaking closer.
He can see the hood tilt to the side along with the owner's head, and more emotions flash through the informant's face than Quinlan can't keep up with. His feelings are all over the place, the bitter panic surrounding him like a toxic cloud.
"N-no, I mean. I...I wasn't going to snitch, I swear!" He takes another step back, lifting both arms out as if it would keep a bigger distance between them.
The figure takes a step forward.
"I was going to pretend! Then I was going to contact you and tip you off. Honest!" His voice cracks, trailing off into inaudible whimpers.
The shadow doesn't speak.
"Please," He rasps, flinching when his back hits the railing. Quinlan sees him turn his head to peer down at the drop between the ground floor and their current position.
Quinlan frowns, considering his options. The figure isn't giving any indication of their next move through the Force. No annoyance, no intimidation, no murderous intent. The right course would probably be nabbing the rat before the meetup time and forcing Quinlan's identity out of him. Or better yet, hide and let the meeting go on without a hitch before attacking. He'll make his move when the figure is distracted making theirs, Quinlan decides.
"Trust me, please . Let me speak to him, he'll know I'm telling the truth, okay? Just take me to the—"
Thoom .
The sound of the blaster shot is drowned in the strike of the compactors, but the searing flash of blue light that lights the room makes Quinlan jump.
He watches the informant's head jerk back, glassy eyes still wide open. A perfectly neat hole is burned straight through his forehead. The man tilts back over the railing and drops.
The thud merges with the soft mourning wail in the Force, and it sends a piercing jolt through Quinlan's head. Fuck, this wasn't supposed to happen, shit... shit .
Duck .
He drops to his knees just in time to avoid another blue bolt, feeling it singe the end of a loc. The window behind him explodes in a shower of glass that digs into the back of his cloak like sharpened snow.
Through the deadly impromptu shower, he catches sight of the shadow. Their arm, clothed in a dark fabric, extends out from beneath the cloak. The blaster in hand, a 434 he categorizes quickly, is still smoking. The bump on both hips suggests there might be another gun hidden.
The hood is pulled low enough that Quinlan can only see a humanoid jawline. The figure is looking straight at him.
They saw through the mind trick. Quinlan realizes, eyes widening.
The echoes of the shattering finally fade away. The conglomerate of noise ends just as quickly as it had started. Quinlan shakes his head to rid himself of the fragments clinging to his hair.
The shadow swivels, dashing through the stairwell doors that lead to the roof.
Quinlan swears, throwing his cloak off. The glass stuck in the folds crunch underneath his boots as he runs after his only lead.
He reaches the roof just in time to see the tattered ends of the figure's cloak disappear over the ledge.
Stealth is all but abandoned now as Quinlan vaults over the edge, landing on the catwalk in a diving roll that doesn't slow his momentum.
As much as he liked the layout of 1996 before, it's fucking shit to chase someone through it. Especially someone who knows what they're doing. The pipe-lined walls, the random gaps in the ground, the abrupt twists and turns, all mesh together to paint a disorienting picture.
The figure looks back once they've turned down into a long stretch of an alleyway. A glint of dark metal is Quinlan's only warning to duck his head away from a blaster shot. It doesn't break the pipe it hits. Instead, it ricochets off with a ping .
Suddenly it becomes a very dangerous game of dodge.
The bolt travels the alley, buzzing past him several times like a deadly pest. At one point, it shoots its way back towards the shadow, forcing them to drop low to avoid it. It gives Quinlan an extra second to gain on them. In that moment of distraction, he waves his hand. The stray blaster bolt shifts directions in the air, launching straight for the back of the shadow's knee.
The other jumps up, gloved hands wrapping around overhead pipes. The bolt strikes against the ground, finally sizzling out. They pull themselves through the gap in the metal, and Quinlan can already hear their quick steps clomping further away on the catwalk above his head.
He swears again, launching himself through the same gap, continuing the chase. He tends to try and keep his use of the Force as subtle as possible when dealing with people on the job. They are the type willing to snitch if given the right incentives. That's why they would be willing to work with Quinlan in the first place.
He couldn't always guarantee that he'll catch a target (even if he wants to believe his record is clean in that regard). It's better to have them think he's just some very athletically inclined asshole than someone involved with the Jedi Order.
Quinlan lets his body take the lead, ducking and dodging protruding metal without thinking too hard. The Force guides his limbs through the labyrinth while he focuses his eyes on the back of the shadow who is always a few paces ahead.
Every time he gets close, they would either climb up or vault over the ledge onto the next platform. The slippery piece of bantha shit. The only plus side is that they've stopped trying to use their blaster.
The chase takes a subtle turn as the figure drops lower and lower, taking them both deeper down into the level. Quinlan drops onto the catwalk with a grunt, finally feeling the sweat building on his skin. This is the lowest they could possibly go in 1996. The only thing between him and the humming void of 1995 is the metal floor beneath his feet. The cramped alley of pipes opens up to a wide platform up ahead.
The only thing beyond that is a dead end.
Whatever is about to happen, is going to happen soon.
The shadow turns again, half their features still shadowed by the hood. Quinlan braces himself for anything.
They spin, one leg kicking out from underneath the cloak. Quinlan's too far away, that won't hi—
It collides against a pipe, a loud hiss erupts as boiling hot steam explodes outwards to cover the tight space.
Quinlan skids to a stop, lifting a hand to his face with narrowed eyes. He can feel the searing heat in waves, tendrils licking at the raised hairs on his bare forearms.
The clouds of white waft in one sharp direction; he hears the creaking of metal.
His head shoots up to see the shadow swing themself over the steam using a hanging pipe. They loosen one hand, body twisting 360 before reaffirming their grip to use the momentum to rock back towards him. Quinlan can feel the whoosh of air coming straight for his spine.
He swivels, catching an ankle just in time to avoid getting kicked face first into some 2nd-degree burns. Quinlan pulls, scowling at the taut resistance when the figure tightens their grip on the pipe. Lips are pulled into an unyielding line that betrays no expression. Quinlan thinks he catches a glimpse of shadowed eyes.
The other leg swings out, attempting to wrap around his neck. He yanks hard, hearing the pipe tear away from its bolts. The Jedi turns, flinging the bastard through the steam.
The motion is too quick for there to be any lasting burns, and the shadow manages to avoid the brunt of it by kicking off the wall, maneuvering their body mid-air. They fall into a rolling tumble out onto the open platform.
Quinlan takes the chance to clench his fist. The steam pipe crushes under the weight of the Force, and the hot air ceases.
Thoom . The catwalk rattles in the reverberations of the compactors.
He stalks forward into the open, tilting his head to dodge the broken-edged pipe that comes sailing for his eye. It embeds itself against the wall of the building behind him with a thwip .
The cloaked figure is already running towards him, hands clenched. Quinlan dodges the first swing, jaws set. So the chase finally ends. About fucking time.
It's an eerily silent fight, the quiet only broken by the sound of exchanging blows, rustling clothes, and grunts. The latter almost entirely from Quinlan. His opponent doesn't let out more than soft huffs of air each time they back away from a blow. Quinlan wonders if the hood is glued to their head; it hasn't fallen once in their scuffle so far.
Usually, Quinlan wouldn't mind a little banter. He's good enough at what he does that the multi-tasking wouldn't break his concentration, but it would destroy his opponent's.
He didn't have that luxury with the adversary in front of him.
Taunts didn't seem like they'd work. The figure makes every move with the intent to kill, laser-focused on landing strikes that hurt . Quinlan winces when a booted heel slams against his crossed forearms, pushing him back. A blow like that could easily cave his ribcage in. He'd be dealing with bruises, and probably fractures by the end of the night.
He does get a few hits of his own in, even if the sly bastard moves like they're dancing, dodging in and out with ease. They're used to close-range combat, but Quinlan's no slouch in hand-to-hand combat either. The hits that do reach their mark are taken with grace even if they should hurt like hell. It barely takes the figure half a moment to recover from each hit.
A fist manages to clip his nose; Quinlan narrowly backs away fast enough to avoid a full break. It burns something terrible, and he sniffs the rush of blood back with a teeth-filled grin. Now they've done it.
A fist goes straight for his gut, and Quinlan blocks it with his left arm before snaking his hand around a wrist. His right one makes a grab for a fistful of the cloak around the shadow's shoulder. With a firm grip, he tugs the shoulder towards him while pushing the arm back with his left hand. He hears a solid pop that rattles the air with more viciousness than he initially wanted. But a dislocated shoulder would be the kindest thing considering all the ways this could've ended.
"Oomp—!" He chokes out when his opponent jumps up, two feet colliding against his stomach. He loosens his grip unconsciously and the shadow launches away from him, stumbling back into the pipe-lined brick of a building.
Quinlan rubs his middle gingerly, looking up just in time to see the other slam their shoulder straight into the wall. Another pop sounds in the air.
What the fuck.
The brawl resumes, but Quinlan can at least feel the figure's desperate need for the fight to end. If not through the Force, then through the slightly increased sloppiness in their attacks.
Quinlan is getting more hits in, finally moving into the offensive. A well-aimed punch forces the shadow back, head snapping to the side as they stumble towards the edge of the catwalk. The hood shifts enough for Quinlan to see brown skin in the overhead lights.
He charges forward with a raised fist, intending for this blow to be the last one to finally put this shitty night to an end. Then, it would be interrogation time, and hopefully a nap.
He comes straight face to face with the end of a blaster barrel.
!
He pushes out, heart hammering as the Force answers his call. The arm jerks up and the blaster shot blinds them both momentarily when it goes off. The platform grows dimmer when one of the lights shatter from the hit.
The figure falls back from the push, their feet finding no ground. Quinlan tenses, watching them tilt back, the void of 1995 rumbling with a waiting embrace.
No —
Quinlan reaches out again, sweat dripping from his temple.
The atmosphere vibrates as the Force shifts, contorting space and time around the falling shadow. Their descent slows to a crawl and Quinlan pushes himself forward.
He grabs onto a wrist and sees gloved fingers twitch.
The hood finally slips against the tug of gravity, giving him a glimpse of dark hair fluttering in the thunderous roar of the abyss below.
The warp of the Force loosens its grip, and Quinlan tightens his in response. He pulls hard, yanking the other away from the edge and flipping them onto the catwalk behind. A teeth-grinding pop resounds in Quinlan's ears, and he knows that same shoulder's been dislocated a second time. Surely, the fucker's not crazy enough to try jarring it back in place again.
He swivels on his feet, a tight smile on his face. His nose throbs with each twitch of a muscle. The figure is turned away, already maneuvering back to their feet. Their right arm hangs limply, brushing against the rough ground. The other arm shifts toward a hip—
"Ohh no you don't." Quinlan grits out between bared teeth, waving a hand. He's already used the Force to save the guy from falling to their death, there's no point in hiding it any longer. Maybe they'll reconsider their actions now that Quinlan's revealed himself to be a Jedi.
Both blasters— the one in their hand and the other still in the holster — are flung away, disappearing over the ledge. DeathHammer models are so common in the underground that Quinlan would be hard-pressed to get any good tracking information even if he kept them. He waits a few seconds, yet there are no echoing clunks to indicate they've reached an end to the void of Level 1995.
"Out of tricks?" He stalks closer, fingers flexing in anticipation but his eyes never leave the still shadow, "I think you should just come along quietly."
He waits a beat, the silence interrupted by the thoom that vibrates the ground beneath his boots.
The figure finally turns, meeting Quinlan's gaze and—
It's a clone.
Well fuck. Quinlan frowns but keeps his stance tense and on alert. This is new information...it doesn't exactly upturn his prior theories and deductions, but it certainly is...new. If a clone is involved, especially one stationed on Coruscant, then it could go as deep as within the Senate.
Someone in the Senate.
Quinlan narrows his eyes, raking them over the clone's features. Is he working alone, for someone? Why use a clone? Are more of them involved? Dark curls frame the familiar facial structure he's seen...not that many times actually. Most of his work took him far away from the heat of battle and by extension, any clones that might take off their helmets around him. This one is going grey at the temples, silvery strands peppering his head. Two scars, one over the bridge of his nose, the other trailing down his chin.
Quinlan's eyes widen, his jaw going momentarily slack. The Force signature finally makes sense.
He knows this one.
"Commander...Fox?"
In all the times he's seen the Commander (most of them from his seat in the interrogation room), the man's never removed his helmet once. But Quinlan's nothing if not resourceful. He'd expertly wheedled the name out of Obi-Wan after the third time he was bailed out, waving a sweet goodbye to the Commander.
Fox hadn't moved, but Quinlan could tell he was pissed from the way his shoulders hitched up slightly at the sight of Quinlan's wiggling, taunting fingers.
CC-1010. First put into commission just under 12 standard years ago. His file marked him as Head of the Coruscant Guard, which likely gave him eyes and ears in places Quinlan could only dream of. Clones were good at that— blending into the background of the Senate without much effort. A Jedi would have a harder time looking like they belonged without a few tricks or two.
Quinlan had made a note to play nice, and bother the Commander eventually about some things to fill in some gaps in his investigations. Fox's headshot image on the holofile had been recently updated, and Quinlan still remembers snickering at the deadpan expression complemented by dark shadows around his eyes.
The Fox kneeling before him is...different.
Despite being Force null, his mental shielding is impressive. Obi-Wan had told him Clone Commanders were given preliminary training on building their shields. Fox took it to another level. Usually, Quinlan could only vaguely glimmer a sense of irritation off the Commander when he marched his way into the holding cell to glare disappointedly at him.
But right now, his presence in the Force is silent. His shields are pulled so tightly, if Quinlan didn't have direct eye contact, he'd have trouble believing Fox is even here.
The tired eyes from the holo are currently blank, expression completely neutral. They remain sharp, mismatched colors glowing in the stray sparks that trickle down from 1997. But they aren't seeing Quinlan. They are seeing a target.
"Never pegged you as a Seppie, Commander." He tries to bait a reaction, but the Commander hadn't responded to any of Quinlan's taunting today nor on any occasion before. If the Head of the Guard has some connection with the Separatists, whether on his own accord or on the behalf of someone else...it's a problem Quinlan needs to nip as soon as possible.
He takes a step forward; the ground shakes with another impact. Thoom.
Fox jumps to his feet silently, swinging his good arm out of his cloak. Something silver reflects the dingy streetlight swaying against the updraft. The vibroblade is small, but it hums its deadly song loud and clear.
Quinlan sighs under his breath, falling into a defensive stance, "I guess you'll be coming along the hard way."
He gets no reply, but that's to be expected.
He waits for Fox to make the first move. The chase had left Quinlan slightly winded, but the energy in the air around him shimmers in his favor. His blood is coursing hot and thick through his veins from the earlier scuffle. He's primed and ready for a round two. Fox is down an arm and his blasters. This should be over quickly. Then Quinlan would have to set up for his own interrogation. Oh, how the tables have turned.
The Commander holds out his knife, hilt tight in his grasp, and leveled with his eyes. Quinlan follows the direction of the deadly edge, bracing himself to react.
The blade bobs then spins as Fox loosens his grip enough to twirl the weapon several times.
Until it angles towards his own throat.
Quinlan's heart leaps in his chest. Shit fuck. Fuckity fuck. He's one of those .
It's not something Quinlan sees often anymore. Nowadays, most of the people that he works with are sorry bastards always looking for a better deal. They have no real moral stake in any Separatist or Republic affair, making it easy to wheedle out information and broker agreements. They would also have the shittiest personalities, but most of them just wanted to make a quick buck and survive in the long run. Quinlan can handle that, he's an expert at dealing with informants like that by now. But this...this isn't...
"Commander, let's not get hasty. You don't have to do this." He relaxes his fists into two open palms, letting them hover in front of his chest in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner.
There's nothing he can bargain for with Fox. Not when the last resort chip that Quinlan sometimes dangles in front of tight-lipped traitors (something darker whispering in the back of his mind—are you going too far?), is something Fox would readily forfeit.
He can't lose asset after asset like this.
"Compromised," Fox speaks for the first time, his voice a hoarse whisper, flat without rhythm.
"What was that?" Quinlan swallows, inching a step closer. The ground jumps beneath his feet.
"CC-1010 compromised, must be terminated." Fox breathes out to himself, barely audible in the aftermath of the compactors. He glances down at the blade for a brief second before looking back up. Sparks fall, sprinkling over his head, extinguishing within the peppered curls.
He blinks, and Quinlan —
Quinlan sees something in there.
For the first time tonight, the Force ripples around Fox.
After spending the entire night straining to catch even a hint of a reaction, the feedback is strong and raw . It hits Quinlan like a speeder, punching the breath out of his lungs. The emotion is sharp with acidic sourness, washing over him in a way that leaves bumps and sweat on his skin.
Fear .
Fox is scared .
" Fox— "
Several things happen simultaneously.
Fox closes his eyes.
Quinlan sees his hand shake.
The blade moves.
So does Quinlan.
Red
The Commander's pulse is quick and erratic underneath the vise grip Quinlan has around his wrists. He feels the warm, stifled release of breath against his neck that Fox lets out as his back slams against the floor. Quinlan's knees hit the rough surface with the same amount of force, sending a jolt through his limbs.
A whistling of air, and then the vibroblade clatters onto the ground, wet with scarlet against the business edge. Quinlan doesn't remember moving. He doesn't know if he had batted the knife out of Fox's hands using his own or with the Force. His own arm stings vaguely, but Quinlan's immediate focus is on the line of red growing on Fox's throat.
It's a shallow cut, beading with red droplets that trail off into the dark hood of the cloak.
He lifts his head, eyes locking with two mismatched ones. Quinlan didn't think clones could have heterochromia. Fox stares back up with one molten red pupil that burns dimly like dying lava, the other eye is dark like the cloudy ash in the aftermath of an arson used to cover up tracks. Quinlan's never seen anything like it.
The expression on the Commander's face is still infuriatingly blank, the fucking stick in the mud. His chest heaves steadily, and Quinlan finds himself matching its pace.
Fox is breathing.
He isn't dead. It's okay.
Quinlan realizes with a shuddering exhale, forcing himself to stay upright rather than sag down on top of the Commander like he wants to.
Nothing's fucked up beyond repair.
It's okay.
He nearly yelps out loud as he tilts, dodging wide at the knee that went straight for his groin. Fox bucks at his hold, and Quinlan tightens the grip on his arms, bracketing the man's hips with his thighs.
"Are you fucking crazy?" He hisses, shifting one arm so that the Commander's dislocated shoulder pulls in a direction it shouldn't go. The only reaction Quinlan gets is the faintest twitch of muscle around the corner of his eyes. The Force is quiet once again around Fox, leaving a heavy emptiness between Quinlan and the ground.
The Fox from the file is a Republic soldier through and through. Had Quinlan miscalculated so far to miss the hidden traitor, willing to silence himself rather than risk capture? Then why? Why the fear? What is Quinlan missing in this puzzle?
Fox wrenches his injured arm from Quinlan's grip — which he had loosen because the fucker shouldn't even be able to move it without immense pain, how in Siths hell — reaching back without looking to grasp the knife .
Quinlan leans forward, free hand outstretched. The blade shakes, scraping against the concrete under the pull of the Force towards himself —
His lower body is suddenly weightless.
The Commander had taken the opportunity to bridge his hips high, bucking Quinlan over his body. He lets out the surprised yelp this time, letting go of Fox's other arm to slam both palms against the ground to prevent his forehead from meeting the same fate. Arms wrap around his torso, dragging him down so he can't lift his palms without losing all balance. The air in front of his head whistles.
Move.
Except he can't . It's too late —
His blood drips steadily from his clenched fist, the point of the knife peeking out from between his curled fingers, mere centimetres from his face.
He doesn't even get half a second to be impressed by the fact that a non-Force sensitive had used the Force against him.
It's the familiar feeling of drenched cotton washing over his senses that makes him curse under his breath. He's aware, painfully aware, of the tears in the glove that rips through the bandages as well. The jittery hum of vibrometal against the open cuts digs into the meat of his flesh, into the crevices of his mind. He can feel his surroundings slipping away into the whispering embrace of the Force.
But it's different. It's the Force but it's —
Bony fingers wrapping around his throat instead of feathering over his shoulders.
There's no fresh air in his lungs, only suffocating ichor being poured into each passageway until he's drowning drowning drowning.
The calm whispers are fading. Warping. It's yelling, it's screams , it's —
Good soldiers follow orders. Good soldiers follow orders. GoodsoldiersfollowordersGOODSOLDIERSFOLLOWORDERSGOODSOLDIERSGOODSOLDIERS—
Fox is already on the move, hooking his ankles behind Quinlan's knees, one hand grabbing him by the crook of the arm still anchored to the ground. He twists his body, and Quinlan flips with him until their positions are reversed.
The Commander goes for the knife still clenched between Quinlan's trembling hand.
Enough .
Quinlan snarls, thrusting his good hand out. Fox is off him before he could even blink at the sudden boom of displaced air. He hears the Commander crash into the pipe-lined walls of the nearest building, metal creaking under the sudden weight.
He still can't take a breath as he sits up, shifting to kneel while keeping Fox pinned under his gaze. The other man is slumped against the wall, but Quinlan can see his chest shaking with coughs. The compactors jolt the level with a thoom. There isn't any blood smeared against the brick when Fox's chin dips against his chest.
Quinlan hadn't thrown him hard enough to break anything, but it should be enough to at least give Quinlan a fucking moment , he glances down at the blade, a moment to process this.
He's no longer caught off-guard, making the unfiltered mess of imagery and emotions easier to sieve through. The knife continues to hum, staining his blood and seeping into his wounds rather than the other way around.
The memories are blurry, barely comprehensible. It's as if a deliberate veil had been pulled over them, muffling the voices that matter and blinding him to the source. Every second he clings to the visions, he feels the shadows surrounding him.
The oppressive suffocation of the Dark Side envelops his chest without any attempt of deceit. It's clear, it's obvious. It's squeezing every aborted breath out of Quinlan's lungs.
Finally, finally , he drops the blade. It clatters on the ground along with the soft splat of the blood dripping from his trembling palm. He grabs onto his own wrist with the other hand, watching them both shake in front of him.
Fuck .
Quinlan takes a shuddering breath. And another. Just because he can. Siths Hell, he can breathe again.
He's going to have the mother of all headaches later, to the fucking pits with it.
Quinlan hears Fox stir, head snapping up fast enough for his neck to creak. The Commander isn't Force-sensitive. Yet the blade is saturated with the malevolent howl of the Force's ominous shadow.
Fox has met them. Tyranus' master.
He knows who the second Sith Lord is.
The Commander looks up, eyes dark and calculating. Quinlan...Quinlan doesn't let himself ponder any further —
It's horrifically easy to recall the Dark, pulling the fear he felt from before to the forefront of his mind and making it tangible enough to wrap around him.
Careful.
Doesn't he know it.
He walks deliberately slow, watching Fox watch him stalk closer until he's standing over the Commander.
The atmosphere grows thick, and he sees the flicker of vague recognition in Fox's eyes as the Force hisses its welcome. Sweat beads at the Commander's temple.
He recognizes this side of the Force.
"If you had just given me a moment to speak rather than lash out, you would find that your master and I are the same." He growls out, keeping his voice low. The words curl in his throat and they spoil the air once they leave his lips.
Fox pauses, and there's emotion. Quinlan can feel it. Confusion, suspicion, and oh the fear . It's a backdrop to everything that is tumbling out of the Commander's cracking shields. Quinlan doesn't want to think about why they fall away like sand at the slightest hint of the Dark Side.
He — Quinlan shudders inwardly, pulling himself out of the inky quicksand he's rapidly sinking into — he can't, he can't do this —
Careful.
He knows. He mentally shakes the last dripping, clinging, piece of slimy sludge off the surfaces of his own shields, which are bending precariously. Not the time for this .
He refocuses his attention on Fox. The other man looks subdued, staring up at him with the hazy eyes of someone resigned to being subjected to whatever is going to be thrown at his face.
"Fox —"
"CC-1010." Comes the clipped reply, automatic and unyielding.
"...CC-1010, I want you to come with me. It was your master's wish for me to observe your mission today. I will debrief you before the master decides your fate." He's nauseous just from saying the lines, but holds steady.
He holds out his good hand, glad to see that the trembling has ceased.
The Commander looks at it warily, a jolt of uncertainty rocking the Force.
This is necessary, Quinlan tells himself.
CC-1010 reaches up and takes his offer.
Prolonged action scenes my beloathed. There's a delicate balance in writing their strengths and weaknesses. Vos is an adept fighter, especially with the Force. But Fox is no slouch either. I hope that balance was conveyed :)
Fandom's flirty Quinlan is fun, but I wanted to try a different take. Maybe he'll be flirty in the future after they sort things out but it's going to be a long journey. I don't know much about his Legends lore so that will not really be present here.
I drew a scene from this chapter, you can find it on my Tumblr at kkrazy256, where I'm always down for chatting!
Next chapter: Fox wakes up to a shattered identity, and he can't even put himself back together without an audience.
Reviews are appreciated and loved. This is a venture into a new territory of characters and I'm nervous!