Flames of black fury licked at the Force-paralysis that Quinlan held tightly around 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 Side 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 was on his knees now, 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.

As Zenaya's attacks bore down on all of them, Quinlan met Vythia's eyes. They were hers now, not the Sith woman'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 Hunter, who broke into a faltering run.

For an endless moment, the three of them stayed locked in the silent battle of wills, with Vythia and the Jedi restraining the Sith woman while her fury burned them. Neither side would back down, and neither was able to overcome the other – they were forced to wait for Hunter to break the stalemate.

The Force shrilled with heightened anticipation, and then Hunter succeeded in reaching 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 Quinlan held her gaze as a 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 dropped 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 Side rushed to aid Zenaya, 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. An instant later, Hunter caught his breath and went quiet, propping himself against the floor with one forearm.

Reeling at the sudden vacuum of silence, both in the Force and in the room, Quinlan took a faltering 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 trailed down the left side of her face and dripped slowly onto the stones. The soft sound was the only thing Quinlan could hear in the now-quiet tower room, except for the stuttering and skipping of his own heart as the effects of the lightning faded away.

Taking an unsteady breath, he moved forward. Hunter shifted, vambrace scraping against the stone floor as he tried to get up.

As Quinlan stopped next to him, he felt Zenaya's scattered presence coalescing in the Force and knew that 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 – 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 eyelids to close them. He used 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 have recovered enough to trap them permanently on Malachor.

He had to find the others, get them on the ship. . .

Quinlan reached for his teammates 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 spent in keeping himself and Hunter upright as they stumbled out of the tower room.

Two times, on their way down the long, 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, catching his 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, maybe a question, but Quinlan couldn't make out his 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 pounded, and sweat made his left hand slip against Hunter's armor. 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?!

As soon as he thought that, the gash on his left arm burned violently, like it had suddenly remembered how – or maybe he'd only just noticed. It wasn't until Hunter took another step 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 again, or tried to, but it didn't make sense. Quinlan couldn't hear his words, or maybe he just couldn't understand them. The next moment, without meaning to, he slipped out of himself. It felt like he was watching from outside the palace as he and Hunter struggled 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 rush back into his body.

The Havoc Marauder was where they had left it, still locked down. Positioned side by side next to it were Tech, Crosshair, and Wrecker, all lying on their backs with their arms straight down at their sides. Eerily similar patches of blood-soaked ash and sand 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, repeating the order each time.

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 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, in a neat pile along with packs, helmets, weapons – even the second lightsaber. Zenaya had left everything within easy reach of all of them.

Silently, the Jedi 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 lightsaber. The boarding ramp lowered and the Marauder's door slid open.

Quinlan twisted around to stare at the palace, his fingers fidgeting absently up and down the burn mark in his shoulder-guard. A breeze blew steadily past, making the ash drift and settle – 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?

When someone brushed by him, he turned automatically to follow Crosshair up the boarding ramp. Crosshair went into the cockpit, but Quinlan stopped in the hall, watching to make sure the others were getting on the ship. As Wrecker entered last, Quinlan looked at the palace doorway – there was nothing. 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 she? Quinlan clenched his hands. Where is Zenaya?

"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 almost seemed wrong, somehow.

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

In front of the sergeant, Wrecker checked the seal on the Marauder's door. "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 – and the rapid ascent. He wasn't sure yet that they'd actually get off the planet without some sort of interference.

But within a few minutes, 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, his hands twitching at his sides. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as though checking for something.

When they reached the graveyard of ships, Tech piloted wordlessly through the twisted remnants of cruisers and starfighters and the silent, drifting inhabitants. The cockpit remained quiet, 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.

Hunter exhaled suddenly and leaned forward, his forearms crossed on the top of Wrecker's chair.

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 weren't gonna make it."

Hunter rested his forehead on his arms and didn't respond.

"Our chances were not good," agreed Tech. "Fortunately, we did get off." He twisted in the pilot's seat to face them and gave Quinlan a questioning look. "We should triage any injuries immediately. Were you –?"

"Hunter was tortured." The Jedi's flat tone put Crosshair on edge, and the sniper glanced sideways at him.

"I must locate a scanner before I can . . ." Tech stood and managed one step before his face drained of color. "Oh. I think – I think –"

He swayed and blinked at Crosshair, looking 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."

"You got it." 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 with his teeth. 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 still shaking, so Crosshair took a moment to swallow some of the gel, too. Then he turned to observe Quinlan and Hunter, who were gazing at nothing, still and 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. All Crosshair really remembered after Zenaya cut him was Quinlan waking him. Nothing in between, not at first. But as he continued to think back, he recalled several dreamlike glimpses of . . .

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.

Wrecker returned, and 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 sent a sideways look 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 raised an eyebrow. "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 younger teammate's arm with a localized anaesthetic. He didn't need the smaller but still dangerous commando to get violent on him just because he needed stitches. As Tech began to shift, Crosshair stabbed a hypo into his own left arm as well.

Then, realizing that the sergeant still hadn't answered, he looked over. Hunter was shaking visibly, and even though his expression was neutral, his eyes were distant and not all there.

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

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

The sergeant came back to the present with a slight jerk, eyes widening as he glanced at Crosshair, then 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 at all," Tech mused abstractedly. "If she wished to cause pain, she should have left us conscious. I only felt it for approximately ten seconds."

Crosshair twitched at the memory of being utterly unable to move, despite the sharp metal slicing into his arm. "Yeah," he muttered.

Hunter looked up, his gaze flickering from the floor to Tech and Crosshair and back 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. "Guess she lied?"

"Did she." Crosshair snorted. "Thanks for letting us know."

For once, Wrecker ignored him. He spun the co-pilot's seat towards himself, then pushed Hunter back to sit in it. "Stay there, y'hear me?"

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

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

The sergeant didn't answer. He was still trembling, but he didn't appear to have any open injuries. Crosshair eyed him for a few seconds, then decided to let Wrecker handle him for now.

In the meantime, the sniper continued the sutures on Tech's arm, swearing under his breath when he had to struggle to place them properly. Despite the energy gel, his hands were still shaking. Crosshair frowned and decided the 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 stood motionless, unable to 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; keeping Crosshair and Tech conscious for it must have been an afterthought on her part.

With a shake of his head, Crosshair refocused on his work. Fortunately for everyone, 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 were just staying 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. He would pause every so often, only to begin again a couple of seconds later. What in blazes did the Jedi think he was doing?

And I thought he was crazy before, Crosshair griped to himself, tapping Tech on the shoulder to signal that he was done.

The technician came back to life with a blink and adjusted his goggles. "Ah – thank you," he said, observing Crosshair's work with interest. His gaze moved to Crosshair's arm, then Wrecker's, and he added, "Why do you suppose she cut us all in the same spot?"

"You want to go back and ask her?" Crosshair muttered, and tried flexing the fingers of his left hand. 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 her goals," he said, and got up. "Wrecker, I believe it is your turn. I will see to Hunter."

Usually, Wrecker did a lot of hollering about inconsequential injuries, but this time he stayed quiet while Crosshair stitched him up. His hands were steadier now, and the task went much faster. The entire time he worked, Crosshair could hear Quinlan wandering around the ship. The Jedi went down the ladder to the lower cargo hold, then back up. Twice.

As Crosshair finished tying off the bandage around Wrecker's arm, he promised himself that he was going to sedate the Jedi.

Hunter was still waiting for Tech to stop fidgeting and tapping with his spare datapad, which he'd finally found somewhere in the heap of metal junk he called 'supplies'.

Rolling his eyes, the sniper held out his left arm towards Wrecker, who set to work on suturing it. As Crosshair watched, he realized that the cuts would probably scar. Tech would hate that.

Then the strange thought came into his head that Zenaya had left 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 leaning forward, arms braced on his knees.

"It is chiefly your throat which has been injured," Tech told Hunter. "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. Yes." Tech returned to his datapad, then frowned in confusion. "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 –"

"Not –" Hunter gestured helplessly. "– real lightning."

Wrecker finished, and Crosshair stood up, pulling his sleeve carefully down over the sealed bacta patch. "Yeah," he mumbled, remembering the strange differences of sharpness in the violet light which he'd seen in his . . . dream? "Looked like two different – kinds."

When Tech and Wrecker exchanged uneasy looks, Crosshair suddenly knew that he wasn't the only one who'd seen bits and pieces of what had happened in the tower room. As the sniper thought back, he realized that he'd never seen Quinlan once. It was almost as though Crosshair had been watching what was going on through the Jedi's eyes.

Now that was disturbing. How had Crosshair gotten inside his head? Or – even more disturbingly – how had the Jedi gotten inside his head?

Unwilling to consider that any further, Crosshair picked up a couple of hypos and weighed them in his hand. Time to knock the Jedi out.

Behind him, Hunter shifted. "Tech?" he said, sounding worried. "What is it?"

"Nothing that is currently relevant," Tech replied.

Personally, Crosshair thought that the – visions – were relevant, or at least concerning, but he decided against saying anything. He tossed a hypo to Tech. "Give him a painkiller."

Tech nodded and moved to inject it into Hunter's neck.

Turning to the cockpit door, Crosshair stopped short. Quinlan was clinging to both sides of the doorway, his face pale. "We brought your weapons onboard," he said hoarsely, swaying a little. "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 so they could all have five minutes of peace. "Why does it –"

"I've been through all the packs. There's nothing that could –" He trailed off with a shake of his head, then added softly, "I don't think she could have."

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

Fumbling a little, the Jedi drew the padawan's lightsaber and turned it on. "Look," he said, gesturing so that the blue plasma got dangerously close to the wall. "The blade's still blue."

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

Without answering, Quinlan deactivated the weapon, shoved the hilt into Crosshair's hand, and headed back towards the galley and the bunkroom.

Crosshair stared after him, then turned to eye his teammates, who looked as confused as he felt. Tech fidgeted with his datapad, then set it aside, bouncing his right knee as he stared thoughtfully at the floor.

Several seconds later, 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 said at last, as though in realization.

"What about her?"

The sergeant gave an exhausted shrug. "She gets – in your head."

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

"Not – physically." Hunter got up with Wrecker's help. "Quinlan must . . . think she's onboard?"

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

"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 snap at him. He took a breath in preparation, but Tech spoke before he could. "Of course, technically speaking, Zenaya was present on the flight to Malachor, and yet she did not kill us. Though perhaps that was because she did not begin to gain strength until we got to the planet, and perhaps she was only able to gain strength there due to the overwhelming amount of – Dark Side energy." His words were coming too fast, almost falling over each other as he went on. "There is nothing here, on the Marauder, that she could possibly be – linked to . . . or is there?"

As the others watched him silently, Tech spun to look at the chest which they'd brought from the Phoenix. "Perhaps – no, because it blocks the Force. She cannot be here." Tech 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. Therefore, 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 shifted his own gaze to Wrecker, who shrugged. "Uhh . . . guess one of us should check on him in a few minutes."

"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 won't even be able to move in a couple hours. Get some sleep. We'll handle Tech."

"But –"

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

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

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

"I'll check on him."

"He –" Hunter hesitated, his gaze going from left to right as though he were searching for the right words. "He isn't – he used the Dark Side –"

"Yeah." Crosshair raised an eyebrow. "He used it several times."

"Yes, but . . ." Hunter swayed again, and Wrecker caught his arm with one hand.

Crosshair scoffed. "I don't think he's going to turn into a Sith, if that's what you're so worried about."

Hunter settled on a tired glare.

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

As they headed towards the bunkroom, Crosshair followed quietly. He paused at the cargo hold when a hurried mutter caught his attention.

Glancing in, he saw Tech pacing the length of the hold, gesturing intermittently as he mumbled to himself. The technician was probably deep in his own twelve or fifteen trains of thought, but he must have heard Crosshair enter, because he paused mid-gesture to stare vaguely at him.

The sniper flicked one hand dismissively to show that he had nothing to say. Tech adjusted his goggles, opened his mouth, and closed it. Then his eyes went with an entirely new thought process. Nodding to himself, he went back to pacing, and Crosshair stepped back. It was probably best to leave him to his own devices for a while.

With Tech and Hunter and Wrecker accounted for, that left just the Jedi, who was probably in the lower hold again. Crosshair entered the cargo hold and opened the trap door, carefully ignoring Tech – who just as carefully ignored him – then started down the ladder.

Crosshair 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 also never heard of Sith women who could stay alive after being killed. Crosshair thought it would be ridiculous if he and the others managed 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 there was still a threat? More importantly, were those Force-abilities accurate right now?

Probably not.

Crosshair went back to the upper hold, then 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 too much, and also to distract himself from the increasing exhaustion and lingering fear.

He stopped abruptly when Quinlan wandered out of the bunkroom, his face even paler than before. His gaze flitted vaguely over the sniper before sliding past and fixing on nothing in particular; almost as though he could somehow see through the ship's hull.

Crosshair watched silently, wondering what it was the Jedi was looking for. Then Quinlan's hand spasmed, like he was trying to clench his fist but couldn't quite manage, and his gaze drifted up towards the ceiling.

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

The Jedi's eyes focused on him. "Zenaya's not dead, Crosshair," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "So where is she?"

"Not here."

"Not here." The Jedi frowned. "You – 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 Crosshair could convince the Jedi, he could believe it himself. "So can you sense her?"

"No!" Quinlan said, raising his voice.

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

"I don't know!" Quinlan took a couple of steps, then dropped onto the galley bench. "It was too easy. Leaving Malachor was too easy. After all that, I just can't see why she didn't –"

He cut himself off, then shook his head, clasping one hand nervously around his forearm.

For the first time, Crosshair really noticed the raw, weeping injuries around Quinlan's wrists, and how his sleeves caught against the torn skin every time he moved.

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 squeamish."

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

Of course, if it had been real sleep, Crosshair wouldn't be feeling like he'd just spent a day running obstacle courses. His pulse raced, 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 asleep 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 shook his head and 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 one arm so he wouldn't take a nosedive and hit his big head. And, maybe more importantly, so Crosshair himself could 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 exhaustion.

"Hm," Tech agreed.

Crosshair had already known that, of course; still, it had never stopped being funny that Tech could always give an accurate answer about the Marauder, even in his sleep and while dead to everything else.

By the time Wrecker showed up, Crosshair felt too light-headed to walk. He let go of Tech, then sat down on the crate and rested his head in his hands. It only took a few seconds to doze off, even though he knew he shouldn't fall asleep. Still, he could wait here, just for a few minutes.

The instant he started to drift off into sleep, he jerked awake, body automatically adjusting to keep him from pitching face-first off the crate.

After a couple of disoriented seconds, Crosshair got to his feet and leaned against the wall, giving his head a hard shake. One of the commandos had to stay on guard, and it might as well be him; something told him he wouldn't be able to sleep, anyway.

Upon checking his chronometer, he 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? When a faint snap came from the galley, he suddenly realized that 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 blood was seeping through the old bandage on his forearm.

Crosshair let out a huff, but Quinlan didn't react to his presence. Crosshair frowned, hesitating.

A few seconds later, the Jedi shivered, his hand clenching around the small piece of wood. He fell still for a moment, opened his hand, and braced the toothpick between his first two fingers. Then his gaze drifted 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 shook his head and decided to step in before all his toothpicks were destroyed. "Quinlan."

The Jedi jerked and twisted 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, where the medpack rested, and shifted, looking defensive. "Already took care of my wrists," he muttered.

"And your arm?"

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

An awkward silence stretched. The Jedi stared at his hands.

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

"Yeah, I'll . . ." Quinlan dragged in a rough breath, then let it out noisily. "I'll do that."

Right.

Another, longer silence fell. The Jedi continued to sit motionless.

Eventually, Crosshair went to the supply shelves and rifled through them. He picked up an energy drink, and was about to open it when he realized he really didn't want it. Scowling, he put it back, then glanced over one shoulder and rolled his eyes at the Kiffar.

"Any time, Jedi," he drawled. "Are you going to drag this out all night?"

Quinlan shot him an irritated glare. "Crosshair, can you just drop it already?"

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

"I'm not stopping you," Quinlan shot back. Still, he reached for the medkit, and got as far as taking out the disinfectant before suddenly losing steam.

"Ugh, just give it to me already." Crosshair plucked the bottle from Quinlan's limp fingers and set to work.

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 sat quietly, not even reacting to the stinging disinfectant except for a slight wince. Crosshair had just finished with it and was reaching for the bacta when Quinlan slouched forward a little, chin resting in one hand. By the time Crosshair tied off the bandage, the Jedi was practically lying on the table.

The sniper reached for the disinfectant again, this time rubbing it on his own hands as he considered leaving Quinlan where he was. Crosshair was exhausted, and the Jedi 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. At this point, Crosshair would have just left him on the floor.

With minimal effort, they entered the barracks, and Crosshair paused in front of his and Hunter's bunk.

"Hunter's out like a light, and I'm not moving Wrecker," he announced. "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 glanced up with an almost bitter smirk before looking away, a sudden flash of emotion crossing his features.

Crosshair eyed him uncomfortably and released his arm. "Or you can stay on the floor."

"Hey – thanks." Quinlan elbowed him lightly. He sounded way too sentimental for Crosshair's comfort. "I –"

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

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

"Agonizing," Crosshair replied.

"Good. Always glad to cause you discomfort. . ." Quinlan's 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 unsteadily for the ladder.

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

Quinlan huffed and stepped onto the lowest rung.

"It would probably save you a few hours."

"Shut up, sniper guy."