Chapter Text
When he woke from the bacta tank, he set himself to work on Baras’ network of spies. Of course, there were those in the council who desperately desired to claim Baras’ power. His influence, his choice of apprentices, the ties of obligations that were bound to him from decades of careful planning -- these things could conceivably be salvaged by a sith with the right amount of respect and command.
Vopenir would have been the natural choice. But she professed no desire to claim Baras’ legacy as her own, when he had dared to suggest that they investigate it she had laughed. A year passed, Baras was cold in his grave and then had come Shan and Revan and his life had been shattered (again) and he had taken the few threads and leads he had managed to cultivate in the belief that one day she would wish to pursue them with him when he had gone.
Intelligence -- sith Intelligence, had been pleased enough to take them from him. He had handed them over blankly, because it was his duty to the empire, because once again, that duty took precedence over his duty to her...
...save one single thread that he pursued in his own time, because he felt he needed to close a book on something that he should never have opened.
And that was how he found her.
The moon was on the outer rim, and he was sure the locals had given it some name, but in the star charts it was listed simply as KX-32 and he felt no need to adjust its name in his records.
It was inhabited, barely, an agricultural world that produced enough to support its population, no more, perhaps a little less. It was out of sight and mind to Empire and Republic alike -- precisely the kind of planet that Quinn had found Baras favoured for these kinds of… projects. No one would come here by accident. No one would come here on purpose, either, unless they wished to disappear.
There was barely even a spaceport, and once he alighted from his shuttle he had to negotiate with locals in a bastardised patois to discover the address he needed, to find a route to the coordinates he had uncovered.
A farm, on the outskirts of a tiny town. A hut, functional, and somewhat wealthier than others he had seen in the area -- a mark of Baras’ favour, he guessed.
A small, overheated room. A middle aged woman. And the girl.
Her skin was a far paler green than her mother’s had been -- he had seen full blooded mirialans with skin that pale, but not often -- free of traditional tattoos and dotted with freckles. There was very little to distinguish her looks -- a child so young was rarely blessed with strength of features enough to leave a lasting impression on anyone, but as she gazed up at him, firmly grasping the hand of the human woman who professed to be her carer, he could not help but recognise the precise shade of blue in those large eyes.
He saw that shade in the mirror, every morning.
Deep, black hair was combed back and neatly held in a braid down her back, and her chin lifted as he studied her with a hint of something that made his heart ache.
“My instructions were to care for her as though she were my own,” the woman said, although there was an edge to her voice that Quinn did not like at all.
“Baras’ instructions have changed,” he said. “The girl is to come with me.”
The woman shifted. He suspected she was not an unscrupulous person. Baras would not have wanted the child damaged, not, at least, until he could use that damage against them, but there were forms to be followed.
“I assure you you will be adequately compensated for her absence,” he said, reaching for his credit chip.
The woman’s eyes cleared and her grip on the child’s shoulder lessened. “She’s a good girl,” she said. “Been no trouble to us. I hope you remember us well to her father.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “Her father?”
She blinked. “Darth Baras.”
Quinn’s nostrils flared and he saw the woman take a step back in sudden fear. It took him a moment to realise his hand had dropped to his blaster, took him a moment to smooth the snarl from his lips.
“Darth Baras is not her father,” he said. The child -- Valdin her name was, he reminded himself -- had not stepped back with her carer. Instead she stood, calm and still, considering him with those blue eyes.
“As you say, m’lord,” the woman said, clearly not caring one way or another. She lived so far away from the Empire, she did not even know that her mentor was dead, only that every month credits were delivered to her account to carry out a duty that had no meaning for anyone save himself any longer.
It was not her fault.
He swallowed and looked down at his datapad, making a quick transfer of funds. She would continue to receive the stipend from Darth Baras’ estate -- he saw no reason to cancel it, despite his lingering anger at her misattribution.
It was not her fault, he reminded himself again. Baras was three years in his grave and had no power over any of them any more.
When he was done he looked up at the woman, who was holding a small satchel. “Her things,” she said. “She don’t want for much, a toy here and there, mostly keeps to herself. Sleeps through the night, although I’ve had some her age that start to wake if they’re in unfamiliar places. You ever looked after a child her age before?”
She was no more than three, Quinn guessed. Which would mean she had been born shortly after their marriage. Baras had almost certainly seen his involvement with Vopenir as a weakness he could exploit.
He would not pretend that the child was meant as leverage for Vopenir. She had never been concerned with legacy, only survival. This particular scheme of his former master’s was entirely for use against Quinn.
He was once again, more than grateful that Vopenir had killed him when she had the chance. “I am adequately prepared to care for her,” he said.
The woman snorted, obviously skeptical, and Quinn felt another surge of resentment, moving forward to take the bag she was holding. She handed it over, and then knelt down to nod at Valdin.
“You can go with him,” she said. “He’ll look after you.”
Quinn swallowed and did his best to smooth his expression. Valdin, for her part, didn’t seem distressed at the prospect of going with Quinn, although he suspected that would change once she was out of familiar surroundings. He shouldered the bag and nodded to her.
“Come, Valdin,” he said, and turned, walking towards the door. When she got to the door she was not beside him, and he looked back. She was standing, eyes wide and staring.
“Go on, girl,” the woman said, gently pushing her forward. She looked back up at the woman, then at Quinn, but did not move.
He took a breath. Held out his hand.
It seemed to be the signal she was waiting for, and she came to him, slotting her small hand into his. It was cool and dry, and he folded his fingers around hers carefully and nodded to her as he opened the door.
Neither of them looked back again.