Flames of black fury licked at the Force-paralysis that Quinlan flung at Zenaya. They surged and flared outward, burning him as she hurled her will against his and as he struggled, despite the unnatural strength the Dark gave him, to keep her tethered. She was fighting all three of them now – Quinlan's invisible restraints around her soul, Vythia's control over her own body, and Hunter's stubborn resistance against the repeated assaults on his mind as she hurled powerful thoughts of defeat and despair at him.

Quinlan gritted his teeth, wavering beneath the expanding inferno of icy rage until he was panting for breath.

In front of him, however, Vythia stood erect, her chin lifted proudly, even though her black eyes were filled with tears. She trembled with the effort of staying in position, fingers clenched so tightly around the vest's edges that her knuckles were pale.

With an effort, Quinlan met Vythia's eyes. They were hers now, not Zenaya's; and the instant she returned his look, a strange bond in the Force twisted between them. From one second to the next, they went from resisting alone to attacking together. With a joined effort, they hurled Zenaya's influence away from the sergeant, who broke into a faltering run.

For that moment, the three of them stayed locked in the silent battle of wills, Vythia and the Jedi restraining the Sith woman while she fought against them. The Force shrilled with heightened anticipation, neither side willing to back down and neither able to overcome the other, forced to wait for the sergeant to break the stalemate.

Then Hunter reached Vythia. Grabbing her right arm, for support as much as to hold her still, he ripped the lightsaber from her belt.

The invisible flames roared, Quinlan's vision swam, and some of Zenaya's power crept past his guard in the form of tendrils of energy which closed around the sergeant's throat.

Choking audibly, Hunter lifted the hilt and shoved the emitter against Vythia's heart as she let out a terrified sob.

Her tear-filled eyes found Quinlan's just as Hunter pressed the activator stud and the beam of pure energy burned through her like a shot, half a meter of crimson blade extending from her back.

Vythia's hands leaped out and clutched Hunter by the shoulders as he released the activator. The red blade retracted and vanished, leaving a hole seared through her chest and blood dripping from her mouth.

She dragged in a shuddering breath – then slammed to her knees. Zenaya's will surged relentlessly, and the lightsaber hilt clinked against the ground as Hunter fell onto all fours, struggling to breathe through the grip on his throat. The dark rushed to aid Zenaya at her command, leaving Quinlan staggering in disoriented pain until the physical connection of the Sith woman's tearing power weakened and failed at last.

Hardly knowing what he did, Quinlan summoned a shield around himself and the sergeant just in time. A blast of multi-layered blue energy streaked out from Vythia to dissipate against the surrounding walls, and Hunter dragged in a sudden breath, choked, and burst into a fit of violent coughing.

Vythia crumpled to the floor and twisted onto her back – then, with a muted cry, she fell still. At the same moment, Hunter caught his breath and went quiet, propping himself against the floor with one forearm as he tried to get up.

Reeling at the sudden vacuum of silence, both in the Force and in the room, Quinlan took a step forward. "Vythia," he said hoarsely.

She didn't answer. Her black eyes were open but unfocused, and the swirls of deep color that had always been present were gone. Her left hand clutched uselessly at the injury and her right was outstretched, grasping at nothing. The trickle of blood between her lips dripped slowly onto the stones. The soft sound was the only thing Quinlan could hear in the now-quiet tower room.

Taking an unsteady breath, he stepped forward.

Hunter shifted, vambrace scraping against the stone floor as he tried to get up. At the same instant, Quinlan felt Zenaya's scattered presence coalescing and knew she could still kill them.

Ignoring the lightsaber on the floor behind him, Quinlan grabbed Hunter around the waist, hauled him bodily to his feet, and turned towards the door. They paused together to gaze down at Vythia – and then, as if in silent agreement, Hunter straightened and Quinlan released him.

Dropping to one knee, the Jedi brushed a hand gently over Vythia's eyes to close them before using the wrist of his sleeve to wipe the tears and blood from her face and mouth. It was all he had time to do. The consuming presence of the gathering storm – Zenaya, always Zenaya – was getting stronger. Within minutes, she might recover enough to trap them permanently on Malachor.

They had to find the others . . . get them on the ship. . . Quinlan reached for them in the Force, failed, and didn't try again. They'd still be where Zenaya had left them, and right now all his focus was being spent in keeping himself and Hunter upright as they stumbled out of the tower room.

Twice on their way down the curving stairway, Hunter's knees gave out and Quinlan had to brace himself against the wall for support as he kept the sergeant from falling headlong down the shaft. The third time it happened, Quinlan almost went down with him – they caught their balance only just in time.

"Sorry," Hunter rasped in a barely audible voice.

Quinlan didn't answer. The jolt of panic had helped to renew his flagging strength, but it had also cleared his mind enough to recognize how quickly Zenaya was gathering herself once again, despite not having a body to act through. The tangible feel of silent eyes on him made him cringe and move faster, half-dragging Hunter along as they stumbled their way down the polished hallway.

Could Zenaya still use Vythia's body? He didn't know – he didn't want to find out. Some Sith had been able to slip bodies on and off at will.

Hunter whispered something, but Quinlan didn't hear the words. Had it taken them this long to get through the hall when they entered Aantonaii? Were they slowing down? . . . Was the hall getting longer?

The sense of encroaching death grew until Quinlan's heart was pounding. He fought the urge to turn, to check over his shoulder. Zenaya hadn't killed them on the spot, before or after Vythia died. Why not?!

The gash on his arm burned, like it had suddenly remembered how, or maybe he'd only just noticed. It wasn't until Hunter pushed him forward that Quinlan realized he'd stopped walking.

The hallway had to be getting longer . . . His heart beat harder. Maybe he was just shaking. Why aren't we dead?

She could have killed them so many times. It was as though, despite everything, Zenaya didn't want them dead. Quinlan dragged in a painful breath, so angry and confused that tears pricked at his eyelids before he could stop them.

Hunter said something, or tried to, but it didn't make sense. Quinlan just couldn't understand the words. Without meaning to, he slipped away. It felt like he was watching himself and Hunter struggling towards the main door. The hallway went on forever – and then, suddenly, they were in the doorway.

As the raw, chilly breeze on the mountain tugged at his clothes and hair, Quinlan felt his mind rushed back into his body.

The Havoc Marauder was where they had left it, still locked down. Positioned side by side next to it were their three teammates, all lying on their backs with their arms straight down at their sides. Eerily similar patches of blood-soaked ash surrounded their left forearms.

With a startled sound, Hunter jerked away and stumbled over to them. By the time Quinlan caught up, he was shaking Tech roughly. When Tech didn't even shift in response, Hunter shook him harder. "Wake up, Tech!" he snapped, then broke into another fit of coughing.

Quinlan moved past him to touch Tech's forehead, then reached through the Force-induced sleep. Wake up, he commanded.

Without waiting to see if it would work, he turned his attention to Crosshair, then Wrecker, and repeated the order.

Only a few seconds passed before Wrecker opened his eyes. He stared blankly at the lowering sky, then shifted his bewildered gaze to Quinlan. "We're still alive?" he asked.

Quinlan nodded tersely.

As Wrecker turned onto his side, he froze and stared at the gash on his arm; then his face twisted in confusion. "Uh . . . I thought . . . She said she was gonna cut my throat, not my arm."

Tech wavered to his feet, then dropped to his knees in the ashy sand, clinging one-handed to the landing gear.

"Get on – the ship," Hunter said huskily, trying to steady Crosshair.

Quinlan fumbled for Tech's vambrace, which lay on the ground a short distance away, along with their packs and helmets and weapons . . . and the second lightsaber. Zenaya had left it in easy reach of all of them.

He passed the vambrace to Tech, who input the code while Wrecker collected their packs. Pushing Hunter towards the shuttle, Crosshair picked up his rifle and the padawan's lightsaber. The boarding ramp lowered and the Marauder's door slid open.

Quinlan fidgeted, running his fingers up and down the burn mark in his shoulder-guard as he stared at the mountainside. A breeze blew steadily past them, but it was weak, just the chilly evening wind, nothing unnatural. Where was Zenaya? Would she attack them once they were off the ground? Was she the storm again – or was Vythia's body moving down the tower stairs even now?

Someone brushed by, and he turned automatically, following Crosshair up the boarding ramp and stopping in the hall while the others entered the ship. He kept his gaze on the palace doorway, but it was still empty. Still empty. . .

Wrecker reached out to close the door, then hesitated, one hand on the control as he looked at Hunter, who said nothing. With a frown, Wrecker retracted the ramp and sealed the door, blocking off the sight of Aantonaii.

Where is Zenaya? Quinlan thought.

"Hunter . . ." Wrecker rubbed the back of his neck. "Where's Vythia?"

"Dead." Hunter leaned forward, bracing both hands against the wall.

Crosshair looked up for the first time, narrowing his eyes. "And – Zenaya –"

The sergeant gave an exhausted shrug.

Tech was glancing between Hunter and Quinlan, eyebrows lowered in unhappy surprise and conviction. "That was . . . not a dream, was it."

Quinlan didn't know. "Get us out of here, Tech," he said numbly.


As soon as the security measures had been shut off and the Marauder was in the air, Tech pulled the shuttle's nose up, increased the throttle, and banked hard, bringing it around in an ascending loop.

Crosshair wrapped his uninjured forearm around the back of Tech's seat and watched the open door of the palace. Nothing moved, no one was there. No unnatural storms rushed out of nowhere to drag the ship to the ground. It seemed wrong, somehow.

No one else seemed to trust the silence either. Hunter was clinging to the back of the co-pilot's chair, fingers digging into the material as he stared fixedly at Aantonaii.

In front of the sergeant, Wrecker checked the seal on the Marauder. "Okay," he mumbled. "Clear to leave atmo."

As the shuttle reached the apex of its upwards spiral, Tech fed the engines more power. Nobody spoke. Crosshair breathed deliberately, trying to alleviate the lightheadedness from blood loss and dehydration. He wasn't sure yet that they'd actually get off the planet without some sort of interference.

But within a minute, they had cleared the atmosphere and were headed towards the orbital graveyard . . . and nothing had stopped them.

Crosshair glanced out the starboard viewport as the planet rotated, falling away to their right. When he caught a final glimpse of the mountain of Aantonaii, now only just visible even to his eyes, it was situated directly between the dark and light hemispheres of the planet.

The distance between the team and Malachor grew with every second. Still, no one said anything. Quinlan was standing between Hunter and Crosshair now, hands twitching at his sides. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as though listening for something.

When they reached the graveyard orbit, Tech piloted wordlessly through the twisted remnants of cruisers and starfighters and the silent inhabitants. The cockpit remained silent except for the sound of the engines.

As soon as they'd cleared the last of the debris, Tech entered the coordinates for a jump to the edge of the sector and activated the hyperspace drive.

The familiar pause-jolt of the Marauder entering hyperspace, followed by the twisting blue light that streaked past the cockpit, finally allowed Crosshair to relax a little.

They were in hyperspace, and Zenaya – or her spirit, or whatever – was back on Malachor. Even she couldn't reach them out here. . . right?

"We got off Malachor!" Wrecker slumped back with a heartfelt sigh. "Whoa . . . for a while there, I thought we wouldn't."

Hunter rested his forehead against the back of the co-pilot's chair and didn't respond.

"Well, we did." Tech twisted in the pilot's seat to face them and gave Quinlan a questioning look. "We should triage any injuries immediately."

"Hunter was tortured." The Jedi's flat tone put Crosshair on edge.

"Yes. I will –" Tech got up and managed one step before his face drained of color. "Oh. I think – I think –" He blinked at Crosshair, nonplussed. "I think I am going to pass out," he finished, then promptly suited the action to the word.

Crosshair caught him under the arms and shoved him back into the pilot's seat, holding him in place with one hand. "Hunter, get me the –" He paused upon noticing how pale the sergeant's face was. "Wrecker, get me a medpack."

"Sure." Wrecker edged between Quinlan and Hunter and went into the hall.

While Crosshair waited, he got an emergency energy packet from the ever-present stash in the cockpit and opened it. Tilting Tech's head back, he squeezed the aqua gel beneath his tongue and tossed the wrapper aside. If anyone needed to be functional right now, it was their pilot.

His own hands were shaking, so he took a moment to down some of the gel himself, then looked at Quinlan and Hunter, who were still completely silent. Given the unhealthy pallor around their mouths and eyes, it probably wasn't a good idea to put anything except water in their stomachs.

"Sit down before you fall," he said over one shoulder. Neither of them moved, or even seemed to hear him. Typical.

He wondered what had happened in the tower room. He wasn't sure what had happened between Zenaya cutting him and Quinlan waking him – but then, as he thought back, he began to recall glimpses of several short dreams that had occurred sporadically.

Zenaya meditating. Hunter kneeling. Zenaya standing with her hands clasped in front of her. Hunter on the floor, caught beneath a web of light. Vythia . . . helping? He wasn't sure how he'd understood the difference, but he knew it was there. Then he realized he hadn't seen Quinlan in any of the dreams.

As soon as Wrecker returned, Crosshair tossed him an energy gel. "Grab some water," he ordered, opening the medpack.

"Yeah." Wrecker fumbled with the thin flimsiplast. "What about –"

There was a loud thud from his right, and Crosshair glanced sideways at Quinlan, who had one fist against the wall. The Jedi didn't seem to have felt the impact or even to have realized he'd punched a piece of metal; he just stood there for a moment longer before turning unsteadily and wandering out of the cockpit.

Crosshair narrowed his eyes. "You were saying?" he muttered to Wrecker, while trying to get a look at the cut on Tech's arm. It didn't look like it had healed to the material of his blacks.

With a tired shrug, Wrecker turned his focus to the sergeant. "Hey, Hunter." He pulled him upright with one arm. "You hurt?"

Since Tech was unconscious, Crosshair took the opportunity to inject his arm with a localized anaesthetic. He didn't need his smaller but still dangerous teammate to get violent on him just because he needed stitches. As Tech began to shift, Crosshair stabbed a hypo into his own arm as well.

Then, realizing that the sergeant still hadn't answered, he looked over.

"Sarge . . .?" Wrecker said hesitantly, giving him a slight jostle. "Come on, snap out of it, would'ja?"

Crosshair tilted his head back, rolled his eyes at Wrecker's completely ineffective tone of voice, and barked, "HUNTER!"

The sergeant came back to the present with a slight jerk and finally looked at Wrecker.

"You hurt?" Wrecker asked again.

After a pause of several seconds, Hunter shook his head and swallowed.

"That is obviously untrue," Tech murmured, eyes still half-closed.

"Quiet." Crosshair pushed a water pack into his hands. "Just drink that and keep still so I can take care of your arm. We need you able to pilot in case something happens."

Tech frowned as he studied the long gash, probably displeased that he needed stitches. Shifting his weight, he fixed his gaze on the consol. "Zenaya did not cut deeper than the subcutaneous tissue," he said, like that somehow made a difference.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Crosshair peeled back Tech's sleeve from the gash and reached for the disinfectant.

"I wonder why she cut us," Tech mused abstractedly. "If she wished to cause pain, she should have left us conscious. It was only a few moments."

Hunter jerked all over, gaze flickering from Tech to the floor. "She said," he began. His voice was painfully rough, and he paused to cough. "She said she killed you."

". . . Yeah, well . . . uhh." Wrecker lifted his hands in a helpless shrug, then let them fall at his sides. "She lied?"

Crosshair snorted. "Thanks for telling us."

For once, Wrecker ignored him. He spun the co-pilot's seat to face them, then sat Hunter in it. "Stay there, y'hear me?"

Hunter clasped his hands between his knees and looked up with a barely existent nod of agreement before glancing around the cockpit. "Zenaya didn't . . . follow us?" he checked.

"Uh –" Wrecker shifted, looking down the hallway where Quinlan was pacing. "No, how could she?"

The sergeant didn't answer. He was trembling, but from what Crosshair could see, he didn't have any serious injuries. At least, he wasn't bleeding out. Deciding to let Wrecker handle him for now, Crosshair continued on the sutures, swearing under his breath when he had to struggle to place them properly. His hands were still shaking. That energy gel was probably outdated.

The gash in Tech's arm was about twelve centimeters in length, and of an even depth that showed Zenaya's skill – like he'd needed any further proof of that. Crosshair had been forced to stand there, completely unable to move or resist or even react as she dragged the blade up his arm with unnervingly calm precision. She hadn't done it to Wrecker while he was awake, though. It must have been an afterthought on her part.

With a shake of his head, Crosshair focused on his work. Fortunately, Tech didn't seemed to notice the stitches. He sat with his head cocked to one side and gazed unseeingly at the wall, which meant that either he was thinking, or he'd passed out again and his eyes just stayed open. . . that had happened before.

As Crosshair wound a bacta strip around the length of Tech's forearm, he could hear Quinlan pacing around the cargo hold, pausing every few seconds only to begin again. What in blazes did the Jedi think he was doing? And I thought he was crazy before, he griped, tapping Tech to signal that he was done.

The technician came back to life. "Why did she cut us all in the same spot?"

"You want to go back and ask her?" Crosshair muttered, flexing his fingers. His arm was getting stiff. That was going to be a problem.

Tech looked like he actually had to think about that one before his hands lifted, then fell into his lap. "I do not understand her motives or goals," he said, and got up. "Wrecker, I believe it is your turn. I will see to Hunter."

Despite all the hollering Wrecker usually did about inconsequential things, he stayed quiet while Crosshair stitched him up. The Jedi could still be heard wandering around the ship. He even went down the ladder to the lower cargo hold, then back up. Twice.

I am going to sedate him, Crosshair promised himself. He held out his arm, watching as Wrecker set to work on it. The cuts would probably scar. Tech would hate that.

Then the strange thought came into his head that Zenaya had put a permanent mark on all of them. Well – except for Hunter. She probably hadn't gotten the chance, thanks to Vythia.

Oddly uneasy, Crosshair glanced at the sergeant, who was waiting for Tech to stop fidgeting and tapping with his spare datapad.

"It is chiefly your throat that has been injured," Tech said. "A bacta spray will help – I know you detest the taste, but if you would like to be cured sooner rather than later then you will allow me to give –"

"I didn't argue." Hunter's voice was even hoarser than before, and he grimaced after he spoke.

". . . Oh." Tech adjusted his goggles, then returned to his datapad with a frown. "Hunter, you are not showing the usual symptoms of electrocution."

"Wasn't – electrocuted."

"Quinlan said you had been tortured. Given what Vythia said earlier, and what we –"

Hunter gestured helplessly. "Not – real lightning."

Crosshair stood up, pulling his sleeve carefully down over the sealed bacta patch. "It looked like two different kinds," he said, remembering the strange differences of sharpness in the lightning he'd seen. "He's probably fine for a hypo."

Tech injected one without hesitation, then glanced questioningly at his other squad mates. It was then that Crosshair realized that he wasn't the only one who'd seen bits and pieces of what had happened in the tower room. . . except with Quinlan. It was almost as though Crosshair and his teammates had seen through the Jedi's eyes. Now there was a disturbing thought. How'd they gotten inside his head?

Unwilling to consider that any further, Crosshair picked up a couple of hypos. Time to knock the Jedi out, he told himself. Then at least they'd have five minutes of peace. Turning to the cockpit door, he stopped short.

Quinlan was there, holding onto both sides of the doorway. "We brought your weapons onboard," he said hoarsely. "And helmets and packs, and the lightsaber, right?"

"Yeah," Wrecker answered.

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing." Crosshair took a step forward and calculated how fast he could inject the Jedi with a tranquilizer. "Why does –"

"Because I've been through all the packs. There's nothing that could –" He trailed off with a shake of his head.

"Quinlan." Tech sat in the pilot's chair. "What are you trying to say?"

Fumbling a little, the Jedi drew the lightsaber and turned it on. "The blade's still blue."

"Oh, goodie." Crosshair edged closer. "Now hand it over before you lop your arm off, and let me –"

Without answering, Quinlan shoved the lightsaber hilt into his hands and headed back towards the galley and the bunkroom.

Tech fidgeted with his datapad, then sat down, bouncing his right knee as he stared thoughtfully at the floor.

Crosshair clipped the hilt to his belt and pressed the fingers of both hands against his forehead. "What is he on about," he demanded.

"Zenaya." Hunter stood, with Wrecker's help. "She gets . . . in your head."

Crosshair studied him for a long moment, then reached for a toothpick. Biting down on the wood, he ground it viciously between his teeth until he felt calmer. "She gets in your head?" he repeated.

"Not –" Hunter sighed. "– physically. He must . . . think she's onboard."

The other three commandos exchanged glances, as though silently questioning each other. About what, Crosshair wasn't really sure. Maybe none of them were.

"What if she is onboard?" Wrecker asked in a low voice.

"Then we're dead." Crosshair threw his toothpick to one side, mildly surprised when Tech didn't seem to notice.

"Yes. That would seem to be the correct conclusion." Tech drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair until Crosshair wanted to yell at him. He took a breath in preparation, but Tech spoke first. "Though technically speaking, she was present on the flight to Malachor and did not kill us. Though perhaps that was because she did not begin to gain strength until we got to the planet, and was only able to there due to the overwhelming amount of – dark side energy." His words came faster, almost falling over each other. "There is nothing here, on the Marauder, that she could possibly be . . . linked to . . ."

He turned to look at the chest they'd brought from the Phoenix. "Perhaps – no, because it blocks the Force. She cannot be here." He sprang to his feet and stared at the blank screen of his datapad. "Vythia's crystal is gone, and so is Vythia herself. She was the host. After her death, she – Zenaya – would have had no time or, or victims to enact a ritual in order to gain another – to gain – to – Augh!"

Throwing the datapad into the chair, he stormed out of the cockpit, hands clenched on either side of his forehead.

Hunter watched him leave, then looked silently at Crosshair.

The sniper, in turn, turned to Wrecker, who shrugged. "One of us should check in with him in a few minutes. Probably."

"I'll do it," Hunter said, taking an unsteady step forward. Only Wrecker's hand kept him from faceplanting.

Crosshair eyed the sergeant, unimpressed. "You're not gonna even be able to move in a couple hours as it is. Get some sleep. We'll handle it."

"But –"

"We've got stun bolts," Crosshair said. "We can handle it."

"Yeah." Wrecker prodded him forward. "Come on."

"See if . . ." Hunter pushed Wrecker's hand aside and turned to Crosshair. "Quinlan."

"I'll check on him."

"He –" The sergeant searched for the right words. "He isn't – he used the dark –"

Crosshair raised an eyebrow. The Jedi had used it several times now, but it seemed to be bothering Hunter for some reason. Scoffing, he said, "I don't think he's going to turn into a Sith, if that's what you're so worried about."

Hunter glared.

"We'll check on him," Wrecker said hastily. "Come on, Hunter."

Crosshair followed quietly, pausing at the cargo hold when a hurried mutter caught his attention. Tech was pacing the length of the hold, gesturing intermittently as he mumbled to himself, probably deep in his own twelve or fifteen trains of thought. The technician must have heard Crosshair enter, because he paused mid-gesture to stare at him.

The sniper flicked one hand dismissively to show that he had nothing to say. Tech adjusted his goggles. Then his eyes went with an entirely new thought process. He nodded to himself and went back to pacing, and the sniper stepped back. Probably best to leave him to his own devices for a while.

That left just the Jedi, who was probably in the lower hold again. Crosshair opened the trap door, carefully ignoring Tech – who just as carefully ignored him – and climbed down the ladder. He was just a bit concerned about what might happen should the Jedi suddenly lose his composure. He'd never heard of a Jedi being upset enough to blow up an entire ship or yank it out of hyperspace, but then again, he'd never heard of Sith women who could stay alive after being killed, either. Crosshair thought it would be ridiculous to survive a place like Malachor, only to die unexpectedly because the Jedi couldn't keep his own power under control.

Quinlan wasn't in the lower hold, but there were several open crates, and the storage cupboard where Tech kept all his junk was open, the shelves' contents disarranged. A quick glance around indicated that nothing was actually gone. The Jedi was searching for something – but what? Did he even know? Or were his Force-abilities telling him that something was still a threat?

Crosshair went back up to the upper hold and wandered towards the galley, working the fingers of his left hand. It hurt, so he did it again – both to keep his arm from stiffening to much, and also to distract himself from the increasing fear.

He stopped abruptly when Quinlan came out of the bunkroom, face even paler than before. His gaze flitted vaguely to the sniper before drifting past, as though he could somehow see through the ship's hull. What was he looking for? The Jedi's hand moved suddenly, like he was trying to clench his fist but couldn't quite manage.

Crosshair folded his arms against a sudden pang of dread. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

Quinlan's eyes finally focused on him. "She's not dead, Crosshair," he said in a low voice. "So where is she?"

"Not here."

The Jedi frowned. "You can't know that."

"Sounds like you can't know the opposite, either," Crosshair shot back, not liking the lost look in his eyes. "Can you sense her?"

"No! But –"

"You're the Force-user. If anyone could know, it would be you." Maybe if he convinced the Jedi, he could believe it himself.

"I can't sense her!"

"Then why do you think she's here?"

"I don't know!" Quinlan dropped onto the galley bench. "It was too easy. Leaving Malachor was too easy. After all that – she didn't –"

The Jedi shook his head, clasping one hand nervously around his forearm. For the first time, Crosshair noticed the raw, weeping injuries around the Jedi's wrists. His sleeves were catching on the torn skin, and the sniper winced despite himself. Then he put another toothpick in his mouth to cover the motion and said, "Might as well patch yourself up. Or I can do it if you're feeling too squeamish."

Quinlan shot him a glare, but didn't protest. Crosshair took that as permission to get the medkit. On his way back, he caught sight of Tech leaning sideways against the wall, asleep despite the hours of sleep they'd just had.

Of course, if it had been real sleep, Crosshair thought, he wouldn't feel like he'd just spent a day running obstacle courses. His pulse was racing, and the little black spots at the edge of his vision were a clear warning sign.

Fortunately, he was good at ignoring warning signs. As he sauntered through the galley, he dropped the medpack on the table next to Quinlan and headed to the bunkroom.

"Wrecker," he said, leaning inside. "Tech's sleeping on his feet."

"Again?" Wrecker grumbled, halfway out of his armor. It looked like Hunter was down for the count already. "Okay, I'm comin'. You got Quinlan?"

"Yeah, soon as you've got Tech."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." Wrecker unsuccessfully tried to hold back a yawn. "Just gimme a second. . ."

Since removing greaves and boots took longer than just a second, Crosshair decided to play it safe. Heading back into the hold, he gripped Tech by the arm so he wouldn't take a nosedive – and, maybe more importantly, so that Crosshair himself would stay upright. If he sat down, he probably wouldn't be getting up again any time soon.

"Is the ship on autopilot?" he checked, trying to stave off his own exhaustion.

"Hm," Tech agreed.

Crosshair had already known that, but it never stopped being funny that Tech could answer accurately about the ship, even in his sleep and while dead to everything else.

By the time Wrecker showed up, Crosshair felt too light-headed to walk. He handed Tech over, then sat down on the crate and rested his head in his hands. It only took a few seconds to doze off – he couldn't fall asleep, but he could wait here for a few minutes . . .

He jerked awake, body automatically adjusting to keep him from pitching face-first off the crate. After a couple of disoriented seconds, Crosshair got carefully to his feet and leaned against the wall, giving his head a hard shake. Someone had to stay on guard.

He checked his chronometer and was startled to see that it had been nearly half an hour since he'd sat down. Everyone else was probably asleep by now.

Or were they? A faint snap came from the galley, and he suddenly realized he'd been hearing it for a while. Had the Jedi been there this whole time?

Crosshair walked silently down the hallway and stopped in the galley doorway. A pile of broken toothpicks littered the floor, and a much smaller pile of unbroken ones rested on the table, next to Quinlan's elbow. The Jedi was sitting sideways on the bench, leaning his head on one hand and frowning at the floor as he rotated a toothpick between the fingers of his other hand. He'd bandaged his wrists – sloppily – and there was blood seeping through the old bandage on his arm.

Crosshair gave his head a shake and let out a huff, but Quinlan didn't react to his presence. A few seconds later, the Jedi went motionless, then shivered, hand clenching around the small piece of wood.

He was still for a moment before opening his hand and bracing his toothpick between his first two fingers; then his gaze drifted almost idly up to it, and he broke it with a snap. The pieces clicked to the floor. As though in a trance, the Jedi reached for another one.

Crosshair decided to step in before all his toothpicks were destroyed. "Quinlan."

The Jedi started, twisting to face him.

Sauntering up to the table, Crosshair brushed the remaining toothpicks out of the Jedi's reach and eyed him judgmentally. "You're bleeding all over the place. Where's the medpack?"

Quinlan's gaze flicked to the other bench. "Already took care of my wrists," he muttered defensively.

"And your arm?"

". . . No." Suddenly sounding drained, Quinlan wiped at his face with both hands. "I forgot."

An awkward silence stretched.

Crosshair picked up the medpack and dropped it on the table. "Well. You've got the means right there."

"Yeah, I'll . . ." The Jedi dragged in a rough breath, then let it out in a noisy gust. "I'll do that."

Right.

Another, longer silence fell. Crosshair went to the supply shelves and started to open an energy drink before realizing he really didn't want one. He glanced over one shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Any day, Jedi. Are you going to drag this out all night?"

The Jedi shot him an irritated glower. "Crosshair, can you just –"

"No," Crosshair replied acidly. "I want to get some sleep, and you're taking forever."

"I'm not stopping you," Quinlan shot back, but he reached for the medkit, and got as far as taking out the disinfectant before suddenly losing steam and staring at the bottle in his hands.

"Give me that." Crosshair plucked the disinfectant from between his limp fingers.

Quinlan must have finally reached the end of his rope, because he didn't protest when the sniper undid the old bandages. All he did was watch for a few seconds, then mutter, "I thought everyone was sleeping."

"If only that were true."

For once, the Jedi didn't have a comeback. He just sat quietly, not even reacting to the stinging disinfectant except for a slight wince. Crosshair had only just reached for the bacta when Quinlan slouched forward, chin in one hand. By the time the sniper was tying off the bandage, the Jedi was practically lying on the table.

Crosshair reached for the disinfectant again, this time rubbing it on his own hands as he considered leaving Quinlan there. The sniper was exhausted, and Quinlan looked comfortable enough where he was. At least, he didn't look any worse off than before. They'd all slept here at some point. And gotten stiff necks, but whatever. Not like the Jedi didn't already have one . . .

Grumbling under his breath, Crosshair hooked an arm under Quinlan's and half-dragged the other man to his feet. The Jedi jerked in surprise, but didn't fight him, which was just as well. With minimal effort, they reached the bunkroom.

"Hunter's out like a light, and I'm not moving Wrecker," Crosshair announced, pausing in front of his and Hunter's bunk. "You'll have to use the top bunk."

The Jedi was silent for a few seconds, eyes shifting left and right as though he were reading something. Then he shook his head with an almost bitter smirk, a sudden flash of emotion crossing his features.

Crosshair eyed him uncomfortably and released his arm, but didn't step away in time.

Quinlan elbowed him lightly. "Thanks," he muttered, sounding way too sentimental for Crosshair's comfort. "I –"

The sniper shoved him towards the ladder and stepped back. "Don't say anything stupid, Vos."

"I wasn't going to." The Jedi cast a sideways glance at him, and a faint smile finally lightened his expression, even if his words continued to drag. "I was going to say: I'm grateful. There. Was that too painful?"

"Agonizing," Crosshair replied.

"Good. Always glad to cause you discomfort. . ." His voice trailed off, and he swayed, then stared at the ladder like it was one of the Trayus stairways.

"Need a boost?" Crosshair asked, smirking.

"Shut up." Quinlan reached for the ladder.

"Maybe you should use the Force to jump up there," Crosshair suggested, resting his weight on one foot. "Probably save you a few hours."

"Shut up, sniper guy."


Thanks to the writerly acquaintances who helped me fix this chapter by detailing everything wrong with it that I should have picked up on but didn't. :D

A reluctant but sincere thanks as well to frazzled79, who called my attention to the point that needed to be fixed. :P