Private Pulled from the Ash

[CT-312]

//: Quinn Varanin //:
//: Bespin Gas Company Locker Room - Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:

The hiss of a shower stall echoed across the tiled locker room. Hot. Everything still felt hot. CT-312 dragged herself into the Bespin Locker Room. Every breath that passed through her helmet’s filters. Metallic. Shallowed and strained. Where was she?

Oh yeah. A Kaggath tournament. Round Two. Her eyelids heavy as the memory hit. Platform. The first grenade with the mist made her sick. The second one. Incendiary. CT-312’s world became swallowed in heat and screaming sensors. Fire. Phantoms in the blaze. Ghosts around her. Centered in the flames that erupted from the grenade. The bell sounded. Round Two was over. She was ‘alive’. Somehow. For now… ‘Ha.’ A sound rasped out of her. Dry and cracked. A single painful breath that tried to be a chuckle and failed on the way out. It hurt. Everything hurt.

CT-312’s boots thudded with deadened weight. Thud... thud... thud… Each step echoed in the tunnel of the arena as she headed back to the locker room. Her combatglove hissed faintly as it discharged the last of its internal Bacta stim. CT-312 felt it surge through her body. It wasn’t relief. But obligation.

It was strong enough to keep her organs and body from collapsing. From going into a shutdown spiral. Unfortunately she’d injected too much since during her match. Too quickly. The chemical recovery had dulled. Slowed. Sluggish healing. Diminished return. Barely enough to keep her upright.

Entering the locker room, CT-312 peeled her armor off piece by piece. Chestplate slipped from her now shaking hands. Clattering on the floor by the door. Pauldrons dropped in the middle of the room. A trail of blackened armor was left on the ground as she headed towards the individual stalls. The furthest one in the locker room.

Hiissss. Water from the shower head came pouring out. Set to the coldest. CT-312 stepped inside. Closing the curtain. Turning, she pressed her back against the slick tile wall… and sank. First to a crouch. Then to the floor. Her legs gave out. Extended as she sat. Her head drooped forward. Breath rasped inside the helmet. Fogging faintly around the edges. Her right arm laid at her side. Gauntlet still attached. Barely functional. Struggling to take the bracelet off on top.

The rest of her armor from the waist down was still equipped. Blackened. Scorched. As the water hit her with a steady hiss. Her body no longer screamed. It whispered. Throbbed. A low slow pain pulsing. CT-312 didn’t know how long she sat there. But the ‘rain’ didn’t stop.

As the water hit her helmet, dull thuds and thin streams echoed inside like soft drumbeats. CT-312’s eyes watched as the water streaked across. Her cracked visor displayed a distorted HUD. A red smeared bleeding red blur. Icons blinked. Warning flashed and flickered like emergency beacons no one would answer.

[SYSTEM CRITICAL FAILURE]
[WARNING: FRACTURE RIGHT FOREARM DETECTED]
[WARNING: INTERNAL BLEEDING DETECTED]
[WARNING: OVEREXPOSURE TO HEAT]
[WARNING: HEALTH STABILITY CRITICAL]

CT-312’s used whatever strength she had to tilt her head back. Her helmet clunked softly against the tiled wall behind her. Letting gravity hold her up for once as a dull thok echoed faintly from the curtain of falling water. She didn’t blink.

She was in a sick kind of limbo. Too alive to pass out. Too damaged to stand. The healing would work. Eventually. But not soon… and not without scars. Her hand twitched once. Then stilled. And above it all, the sound of water kept falling. Staring half lidded into the ‘rain’.

Silent. Burnt. Alive.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: CT-312 //:
//: Attire //:

She had seen all of it. Every moment that exploded in that arena.

Three she knew, all had lost, but the one she cared about could not do what the others could do. They were force users, possessing the ability to heal and move on from this fight. 312 was different. The trooper was unstoppable and, as far as Quinn knew, unkillable.

Until now.

Quinn moved through the crowd as they prepared for the next fight. There was a lot of excitement lined up for the crowds going into the semi-finals. Quinn had wanted to watch Mercy and the Sith Champion, but all of that went out the door when she could feel 312 struggling.

Panic made her move faster, fluid through the crowd as she ran towards the Bespin Gas locker room. A guard tried to stop her, but she pushed through him, and he fell onto his side. The door shut behind her as she stepped over the scattered bits of armor. She could feel the heat radiating off of them. The armor was obviously designed beautifully, but 312 pushed it to its limit.

Looking around, Quinn didn't see where the trooper was. "312!" she shouted and put her arms up, holding her head as she tried to think where else the trooper could be hiding.

The water.

It echoed in her ears, and she quickly turned towards the showers. It was there she saw the small trooper looking smaller than she had ever seen her.

"312!" she shouted again and ran towards her, sliding quickly to move closer and climb into the shower. The moment she got close enough, that sickening feeling pulled at her stomach.

Quinn gasped, knowing exactly what caused the feeling. She remembered that the trooper had bits of armor that nullified the Force. Quinn pulled at the bracer, unlatching it and burning the tips of her fingers doing so. Despite the water, the trooper was still burning up.

Tossing the bracer aside, Quinn reached forward and tried to wipe the water from the filthy visor of her helmet.

"312, what the fuck were you thinking?!" Her voice panicked as the Force came back.

Quinn could feel her heart starting to give out; she was cooked from the armor and the explosives.

She cursed again as she placed her hand on some of the more grievous wounds and channeled the Force. She would need a minute to recover from the nullification field, which had dulled her for a second. Still, right now she needed to maintain her focus.

"You can't die, you idiot — why did you do that??"

 

[CT-312]

//: Quinn Varanin //:
//: Bespin Gas Company Locker Room - Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:

Dark.

Even with her eyes closed, it wasn’t the comforting kind of dark that she knew behind a visor at night. It was heavy. Suffocating. CT-312 was slipping. Drifting further and further with each shallow breath.

CT-312’s chest shuddered, air rasping through scorched lungs. “312!”. Faintly. Barely there. The voice was sharp. Fierce. But the undertone… it dragged her back. Pulled her attention. Familiar.

Then again… “312!” Her head twitched. Was she hallucinating the sound? Her mind drifted back into the emptiness. Thoughts slipped in and out. Static. Black.

“312... the fuck… you thinking?!” Sharper. Urgent. Her number. ‘That’s me.’ Someone or something shouting it. Her body stirred subtly at the recognition, but everything else was drowned. Muffled. No words made sense.

Her right hand twitched once where the bracelet was removed. Reflex. Trigger. Feeling something pressed hard to her chest. CT-312’s body reacted before her mind could. Fingers spasmed closed into a clenched fist. Wrist jerked once. Schhhhhnk. A hidden blade snapped free from the vambrace that once had the bracelet. The sound cutting through the hiss of water, echoing against the stall’s tiles. Suddenly… a jolt of pain. Someone was here. A dull voice pressed through the haze again. Blurred and distant.

CT-312’s conditioning screamed fight. Body sagged against the cold tile. Twitching faintly despite the stiff joints. Eyes snapped open halfway. A blur through cracked glass and falling water. HUD warnings bleeding red. Only a shadow leaning close. Too close.

Fight.

The Scout’s eyes stared empty through the blur. Unblinking and vacant. Her right arm rose in a shaky arc. Jerking upward. Water fell from the blade’s edge as it was angled to drive into the unknown shape leaning over her.

Nothing familiar registered. No face. No ally… She had no friends. Who would bother with someone like her. A trooper was expendable. Replaceable. And her? CT-312 wasn’t even one of the good ones. A failed clone. A defective echo that was only ‘useful’ before finally breaking.

Fight.

CT-312’s chest rattled as air tore in and out. Coming out as jagged mechanical rasps through the helmet’s modulator. A low faint half growl emitted. Hollow eyes stared ahead. Unfocused and mind blank. Her body obeyed the only thing it knew. ‘Finish the job.’ echoed in her mind. Until there was nothing left to finish with.

The air in her lungs burned as her arm trembled mid-drive. Struggling between weakness and instinct. Still fighting to drive forward the blade to finish the strike as her body screamed in protest.

 

[Quinn Varanin]

//: CT-312 //:

The water and the blood pounding in Quinn's ears almost distracted her from the danger that loomed near her. She froze, seeing the blade snap out with its distinctive sound. The sound cut sharper than any word could, and for the briefest moments, instinct screamed. Quinn knew she needed to defend herself, but she didn't. This wasn't the Trooper who had almost killed but stopped. She remembered how 312 waited for punishment.

This was 312 trying to survive. She hoped.

Quinn placed her hand on the wrist that housed the blade; she put enough pressure to push it away and keep it away, but not enough to threaten the Trooper. She could see the quick breaths, the shallow rise and fall of the girl's chest. It wasn't a good sign. Fear started to linger in the back of Quinn's mind — what if this was it?

She let go of her hand as she reached for the helmet. She needed to see her face, make sure everything was alright. Hands searched along the edges of the scorched helmet; it was damaged, but not enough to prevent Quinn from getting in. Getting a grip on the edges, she pulled as gently as she could despite the panic in her chest.

Once. Twice. Three times she pulled, and the helmet was stuck.

The blade came up, jerking towards her. Quinn caught it from the side of her eye, and she didn't flinch. Instead, she moved closer, hand steady as she noticed the inside of the Trooper's attacking arm, maneuvering the blade away from her.

She pushed gently again against the vambrace, forcing the blade away from her. Quinn didn't yank or fight it — she guided it down. Her touch was controlled and deliberate. "312. Stop. It's me." She held the blade down as a hand searched under the curve of the helmet.

There had to be something to unhook it or something that released its hold on her head.

Another jerking motion, and Quinn spoke again. "312. It's Quinn, it's the Princess." Cursing under her breath, she needed both of her hands. She had found the latch of the helmet and, through the Force, she unhooked it and pulled the helmet as gently as she could off the broken woman's head.

"Hey," she hushed the girl as she was able to see the daze in her face. Hopefully, now, she would be able to make out the shape that loomed near her, and she wouldn't continue to fight.

"You're here. With me. Not there. You're done fighting — just breathe… please," she coaxed the girl as she let her hand hover over some of the wounds, the burns that tainted the Trooper's body.

Her flesh stitched together, but it wasn't enough. There was too much, and she could feel the Trooper starting to slip. She was on the edge, and while her body moved to fight, she wondered if mentally she was fighting as well. Another moment of panic, but Quinn quickly cupped the girl's jaw, letting the warmth of the Force flow through her.

She wanted to avoid the inevitable. Her light healing wasn't going to be enough. Still, she wanted to at least bring 312 from death's door before putting her through the excruciating pain of the actual healing.

Quinn felt her lip tremble as she watched the clone fall apart. She could feel the heat radiating from her, the tremors of muscles fighting to stay alive, and Quinn just continued to channel the gentleness from her hand as water cascaded down both of them.

"You can't die," she whispered, leaning closer — fully prepared for the Trooper to react violently.

"You're not allowed to die. You're better than this. You felled a Sith Lord, you put him on his heels — no one would have believed it. But you did it." She praised the Trooper as her fingers pressed gently into her cheek.

"I need you to fight, because you're not done here. You're mine, and I'm not going to let you die."

Her hand fell from the Trooper's cheek as she placed a hand on her shoulder and the other on her core. The mediocre Jedi healing wasn't going to do the trick. She needed something more; she needed something that only a follower of the dark could accomplish. She exhaled, not only to anchor herself, but to prepare for the blade to snap up and stab her in reactive defense.

"Stay with me, this might hurt — but you'll thank me later."

Suddenly, a shock to the system would surge through the small Trooper. Quinn forced her own force energy into the girl, urging her body to heal and pull itself from death. Gritting through her teeth, Quinn did her best to keep herself anchored, not to pour all of herself into the dying woman.

 

[CT-312]

//: Quinn Varanin //:
//: Bespin Gas Company Locker Room - Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:

The hiss of the water blurred everything into one unending drone. The world existed in fragments. Heat, cold tile, and pain stitched into every nerve.

Missed. Dazed eyes slowly shifted. Confused. She had missed the strike. Did something change trajectory? Or was it exhaustion? Was her body finally giving out? Behind the cracked visor, CT-312’s eyes blinked once, lifeless. Pressure brushed against her. Too faint to place. Everything hurt too much to tell…

Movement. Hands on her. Close. Too close. Pressure tugged at the edges of her helmet and head. Fingers probing for a grip. Trying to take her helmet off. Through CT-312’s helmet modulator, the sound came out jagged “Krrhhhttt… Hkkhkrrk” almost like a growl. Her training screamed: Again.

CT-312's body jolted. Blade twitching upward in another strike. Muscles failing with every spasm. She wasn’t strong enough. But she didn’t need to be strong. No. CT-312 only needed to do what she was created to do in the end. Kill. Fulfill duty.

Missed. That light pressure again. Guiding her strike away and downward. Not forced. It was disorienting. The Scout tried to wrench her head to the side, but the grip on her helmet kept her still. A voice reached her in fragments, only her serial number fully registered. “312.” Alarms screamed loudly at the fingers searching. Danger. Exposed. Her wrist strained against the steady pressure pinning it down. Every tendon and muscle trembled. Lungs dragging in another metallic gasp. Through the helmet’s modulator, the sound came out jagged.

CT-312’s mind was fractured. Fogged. A cycle of broken signals: ‘Target. Close. Kill.’ Drilled into her: No one touches you, unless they mean to end you. Punishment or death. Kill them before they kill you. But the pressure moving and holding her bladed arm wasn’t violent. It wasn’t crushing. Guided. Not forced. It confused the body… confused the reflex.

Her jaw tightened. A faint muffled grunt slipped out. Sharp pain ran up her sternum as she fought air into her lungs. CT-312 mind pulled back in for a moment. “312. It’s Quinn, it's the Princess.” Words reached, but it was distant. Fading. Her helmet shifted, tugging and pulling once more. Hiss. Release of seals giving way. Gone. Cold air and water hit against her bare face.

Vacant eyes fluttered wide open as pupils dilated. Trying to focus, only to catch a blur of a silhouette. CT-312 muttered an exhale of a word, “Eliminate.” A voice cut through. Soft… Urgent. The Scout’s eyes shifted to the blur. Words bled in faintly, muffled by exhaustion. A partial line cut through: “—done fighting”. Her arm trembled again, then faltered. Wrist blade sagged, clattering faintly against the wet tile floor. CT-312’s mind clawed between the emptiness and the pull of the voice. ‘Tired.’ and ‘Pain.’ echoed in her mind as she began to drift. A hand steadied her jaw, holding her head upright. Warmth seeped through her skin. Not fire. Not the consuming agony she knew. This was different. Gentle. ‘Not pain.’ Something else… CT-312 didn’t understand it. Couldn’t. Her eyelids drooped half-lidded as her head tilted into the warmth despite herself. Breath jagged through her throat as her body began to stall. Every system faltering. Only confusion remained. Only exhaustion.

The blur moved even closer, the gentle warmth pressed more into her cheek. CT-312’s hollow stare lingered, unblinking, rasping breaths dragging through her throat like metal scraping stone. Words came at CT-312 in full. Flickered in her mind like a spark. Her breathing didn’t ease, but her eyes— hollow moments ago— shifted. Focusing faintly. Slowly, recognition seeped in through the haze as the figure continued speaking. A face. Familiar. Confusion grew even more.

It’s her.

Helmet gone, no filter to modulate the sound. Just faint raw broken breath. “Q…uinn.” Recalling the words spoken to her earlier on. The word barely formed, hoarse and cracked. “P…rin…cess…” Pressure holding her bladed wrist disappeared as well as the warmth on her face. It moved. The hands were placed on her shoulder and core. Then it came.

Not pressure. Something deeper. Invasive. It struck like a lightning bolt to the chest. CT-312’s back arched against the tile, every muscle seizing at once. A jagged breath ripped out of her throat. Strangled through raw vocal cords, echoing hollow from her open mouth. Whatever the Princess was doing, it was fire and molten iron flooding throughout her whole body.

Another shock of alarms flashed through her. Another rasp broke through CT-312’s throat. Pain. Chest convulsing, lungs clawing for air. Each inhale came broken. Body thrashed weakly. Spasming. Scorched arms and legs rattled. Her nervous system couldn’t tell if it was being burned alive again or being forced back into life. Burns began to disappear as skin formed. Cells knitted and stitched together pulling tight in painful surges. It felt more like tearing than mending. Fractured bones buzzed beneath the surface. The cracks closed themselves in fits of agony.

Her brain lit up with old training: Punishment. Torture. Kill before you’re killed. Every nerve shrieked that this was an enemy attack. Jaw locked. CT-312 swallowed the cries rising in her throat. Was this punishment finally delivered? Servos whined as the right bladed gauntlet rose shakingly. Conflicted. For whatever reason, The Princess had never physically disciplined her, even when she had made mistakes. The Scout’s gaze caught the figure close in front of her. Fighting back the reflexes and muscle memory. As the blade drove toward directly to the Princess’s head, CT-312’s hand subtly jerked sideways. Missing. The strike landed about an inch from her cheek and ear. As the bladed arm hovered shakily at the side of the Princess’s head, CT-312 struggled to grasp control. Her voice threading through the fire and fog of pain.

“You’re here. With me. Not there...”
“You’re not allowed to die. You’re better than this…”
“I need you to fight, because you’re not done here. You’re mine, and I’m not going to let you die.”

The words sank like hooks in CT-312’s consciousness. Her jaw clenched until her teeth grounded together. A raw and wet growl tore through her throat. Conditioned instincts drowned out by something older. Stronger. Something CT-312 never thought she’d ever do. Trust. CT-312 would trust the Princess. Whatever she was doing, she’d accept.

Fingers spasmed, jerking wide open before slowly uncurling. Spreading open until the hand was bare and trembling. The hand rattled in the air just above the Princess’s shoulder. Fighting the order coded into her bones. A word ripped through her mind, loud and clear. ‘No.’ Louder than the static of agony. Consciousness and focus clawed its way up from the void, back into her glazed eyes. ‘Not hostile.’ Her wrist subtly jerked once. The hidden blade retracted with a metallic snap. Locking tight with finality. ‘Safe.’ CT-312’s chest heaved with effort as she fought through the burning and stabbing sensations. Suddenly, she drove her right arm back from where it came. Redirecting the violence. Away from Quinn. The servos in her gauntlet whirred, strained, as she drove her fist downward into the floor. CRACK. The sound reverberated through the stall as ceramic exploded under the blow. Shattering tiles into splinters and fragments scattered into the shallow pool around her. Water splashed upward, spraying back against her arm and face.

CT-312’s whole body convulsed again as another wave of energy surged through her. It hurt worse than the incendiary. Worse than a punch from a Force-infused light golem. Every nerve screamed. Her body and mind caught between the memory of the fire and the reality of being forced to live through it again.

Her mind began to fracture once more as her scream was forced silent and muffled by conditioning:

'End it. Kill. Make it stop.'

And

'Trust. The Princess. Trust Quinn."

CT-312 clung to the second. The only command that mattered now. A single word that tethered her to the world instead of the void. The only thread keeping her anchored.