Private To Sink Or Swim [Ala Quin]

[Balun Dashiell]

THREAD TITLE: TO SINK OR SWIM
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol
TAGS: Ala Quin

Balun hadn't expected her reaction—the softness in her voice, the flicker of emotion that crossed Ala Quin 's face. Where he had long since accepted the fractures in his own past, worn smooth over time like a stone in a river, she seemed to feel the rawness of it now, as if his story reached some tender place inside her.

It caught him off guard.

Instinctively, he eased back on the throttle, letting the Bongo drift in the quiet depths. The soft whir of the submersible faded to a hush as he leaned back in his seat, turning to study her with a mixture of curiosity and, admittedly, mild concern. Balun was hardly an expert in navigating moments like these—typical, perhaps, in his own way, often oblivious to how deeply people could feel when touched by another's pain. He was no stranger to offering empathy, but receiving it? That was something else entirely, something rare.

"Hey," he said gently, his voice low and steady, "it's all good. You don't need to worry." His gaze softened, the usual edge of his expression giving way to something open, something real. "I'm okay now. The Jedi—they treated me well. Became a second family, really. And the Dashiells… they're incredible. Sure, I'm the only Force user in the lot, but I wouldn't trade them for anything."

For a fleeting moment, he fought the small impulse to reach out, to place a hand on her shoulder as a quiet gesture of reassurance. But they were still strangers in many ways, and he wasn't about to step across unspoken boundaries. Instead, he let his words carry the weight of his intent, hoping she heard the truth in them.

When Ala suggested a new destination, the shift was a welcome one. Balun gave a brisk nod, grateful for the gentle pivot in their conversation. "Crystal Gardens, huh?" His brow lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling into a faint, amused smirk. "Are they submerged, or tucked away in some kind of underwater cave we can surface in? Never seen one before—obviously," he added dryly, his tone light, poking a bit of fun at his own earlier admission of Bongo inexperience.

With a subtle push of the throttle, Balun angled the submersible away from the looming trench wall, guiding it smoothly back toward the heart of the tunnel. The Bongo responded with a soft hum, gliding through the dark like a sleek, silver arrow.

"So… where exactly do we find these heat vents or mineral formations?" he asked, casting a glance toward Ala as the glow of their forward lights danced across the jagged rock and swirling sediment. "You think they're marked, or are we just going to follow the shimmer and hope for the best?"

There was something in his voice—half curiosity, half quiet excitement—as if the adventure was just starting to unfold.

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala pressed her palm softly to the transparisteel dome, eyes following the lazy arc of a moonfish as it flitted just outside the Bongo’s shimmering glow. Its scales caught the light like starfire, and for a few long seconds, she forgot about everything except the flick of its fins and the lull of the water.

“I think we follow the shimmer,” she said at last, half-grinning over her shoulder at Balun. “That's always how it works in the stories, right? You don’t find wonder by chart—you chase it through caverns with a too-bright heart and no map at all.”

His voice, the steadiness in it when he reassured her, lingered with her longer than she let show. She didn’t glance back immediately—if she had, he might’ve seen the way her lashes fluttered or the way her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something but didn’t trust it yet. It wasn’t romantic. It was just... that he’d been through all that and still smiled like that. Still laughed like that. Still cared about beauty and his son and finding places like this.

“You’re lucky, you know,” she murmured eventually, casting him a side glance that was more sincere than teasing. “To be found. That someone came looking. That you got to know where you came from.” She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t say that she'd never had that. That even now, centuries out of time, she still didn't know who had made her or why. That kind of vulnerability wasn’t for this moment.

So instead, she pointed toward a faint shimmer in the distance—where the trench floor rose into layered shelves of pale stone glowing faintly with bioluminescent veins.

“There. That’s the beginning of the Crystal Gardens. See those rippling flows?” She leaned forward, tapping lightly on the dome. “Thermal vents. If the water’s warm enough, the mineral growths bloom into these glassy structures—like coral, but sharper. More fragile.”

A pause. Her brow furrowed in thought.

“I read that the Gungans think it’s sacred. Something about the Force singing clearer in places where fire meets water. I don’t know if that’s true, but…” she trailed off, gaze softening as the glinting stones came slowly into view.

“...it feels true, doesn’t it?”

| Balun Dashiell |​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

THREAD TITLE: TO SINK OR SWIM
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol
TAGS: Ala Quin

"I was extremely lucky," Balun agreed quietly, his voice stripped of any bravado or embellishment. There was no need to explain further. He left it there, simple and true.

What he didn't say—what sat unspoken in the space between his words—was the truth of those lost years between the time he fled the New Jedi Order and the moment he was found by his father, Judah Dashiell . Those years had been shaped by the cold alleys and flickering neon shadows of Coruscant's lower levels, by nights spent scraping for survival, by choices made in desperation. He'd fallen in with gangs, using his connection to the Force not as a noble gift, but as a tool—for quick credits, for rigged fights, for the kind of work no young man should have to consider. Anything to stay afloat, anything to stay unnoticed by the Order he'd run from, afraid they might drag him back.

But there was no point in telling Ala that. She didn't need to hear it. He was already hard enough on himself most days without adding more weight to how others saw him.

He was twenty-three now, nearly twenty-four. He had left the Order at fifteen, met Judah at seventeen, and everything in between had been survival and consequence. He'd tried to make peace with it by giving himself to something bigger—volunteering for the Tingel Arm Coalition, joining the Aquilian Rangers, fighting a war to protect those who had no voice under Imperial rule. But redemption bought in blood came at a price, and Balun had paid it in full, standing among the bodies of brothers and sisters lost to the chaos of battle.

Ala's voice pulled him back, a thread of sound weaving through the quiet of the Bongo's cockpit and anchoring him to the present. Blinking out of his thoughts, Balun refocused, catching sight of the shimmer she was pointing toward. A school of moonfish glimmered like scattered stars in the dark, their sleek forms flashing silver-blue as they darted ahead. He guided the Bongo into a smooth bank left, aligning with the dance of the fish as they led them deeper toward the faint glow on the ocean floor.

Ahead, the pale stone formations emerged through the haze, their rounded and jagged edges clustered around the rising shimmer of thermal vents. The water rippled with heat and movement, casting a faint mirage-like blur across the rocks—just as Ala had described.

"If this is a sacred place…" Balun murmured under his breath, his voice low but carrying easily to her ears, "…a place where the Force flows so strongly it gives the ocean a voice…"

He exhaled softly, a flicker of awe glinting in his eyes.

"…then this is going to be one hell of an experience."

His words hung between them, a mixture of disbelief, excitement, and the quiet longing of a man who, despite everything, still yearned to feel connected to something greater.

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala didn’t answer right away. She just looked—looked at him, at the shimmer through the water, at the haunting shapes growing clearer through the misted blue. The thermal vents were rising now, soft jets of warmth visible only by the way the water distorted in gentle waves above them. The crystal garden was there, unfurling slowly as if in greeting.

“You’re right,” she said, voice hushed. “This is going to be something.”

There was a glint in her eyes again—not tears this time, but something wider, rounder. Wonder, maybe. Awe. And somewhere inside it, yes, still that tug of feeling. But she didn’t act on it. She just smiled, tucking a curl behind her ear and leaning forward to peer into the bloom of light ahead.

“Keep going slow. The formations are delicate. They’ll fracture if the current pushes too hard.”

She pointed gently toward a wide, fan-like cluster of crystals rising from the slope like frozen fire. The Bongo lights danced across their surfaces, revealing soft violet, opal, and pale gold tones inside. Heat shimmer made them look like they were breathing.

“There,” she whispered, grinning. “Let’s set her down over that shelf.”

She began unfastening her harness, already shifting in her seat. Her movements were careful, reverent—like someone preparing to step onto sacred ground.

“Most of these gardens are untouched. Even the Gungans only pass by. They say it’s rude to speak loudly near them. Some believe the crystals can store emotion—that they echo what you bring into the space.”

She blinked, then glanced over with a sheepish shrug.

“So maybe don’t think about taxes or heartbreak or the time you stubbed your toe in front of your hero. You know. Just in case.”

A soft hum escaped her lips as she eased closer to the viewport again. She didn’t open the hatch yet—just sat for a moment, head bowed slightly in the glow of the garden below.

“It feels quiet here,” she murmured. “The kind of quiet that doesn’t mean empty. The kind that means listen.”

And so she did.

| Balun Dashiell |​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

THREAD TITLE: TO SINK OR SWIM
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol
TAGS: Ala Quin

​

Balun shifted slightly in his seat, the subtle creak of the cockpit seat lost beneath the gentle hum of the Bongo's systems. His fingers loosened momentarily from the controls, flexing as if to shake out a flicker of tension before he took hold again, this time with a steadier, more deliberate grip. His gaze followed Ala Quin 's, tracking the faint glow ahead as it gradually intensified, spilling its shimmering light into the dark waters around them.

Carefully, he eased the Bongo forward, guiding it toward the slope where crystalline formations began to emerge—gleaming shards that caught the submersible's beams and scattered the light in a delicate dance across the rock face. The closer they drew, the more the slope revealed itself, a slope of pale stone that cradled the glimmering crystals like jewels embedded in the sea's crown.

A faint nod to himself, a small gesture of approval, escaped as Balun adjusted the controls and brought the Bongo into a gradual descent. He guided the craft with precision, bringing it down toward the lip of the shelf with a caution born of instinct. This was no place to rush.

Ala's lighthearted quip about avoiding thoughts of taxes or heartbreak pulled a low chuckle from him, the sound rumbling quietly in his throat as he throttled back the engines. With practised ease, he shifted the repulsorlift thrusters into idle, allowing the Bongo to settle into a gentle hover atop the shelf. The ship's automated tractor beam engaged with a soft pulse, anchoring them just enough to keep their position without disturbing the fragile coral formations clinging to the rock.

"Good thing we've got a couple of rebreathers in the compartment in front of you," Balun said with a grin, glancing sidelong at Ala. "Told the guy at the shop I wouldn't need 'em… yeah, turns out I was way off." He punctuated the remark with an exaggerated shrug, his expression slipping into the easy charm of someone willing to laugh at his own miscalculations.

But Balun's manner shifted as they prepared to step into what might well be a sacred site. Quiet respect softened his features as he reached down to unclip his Lightsaber and ease the holstered K-16 Bryar Pistol from his belt. Without a word, he set both carefully on the dashboard above the Bongo's control panel—deliberate, measured, mindful. If the Gungans revered this place, the last thing he wanted was to bring weapons into its heart.

Turning back to Ala, his lips curved into a faint, wry smile.

"All right then," he murmured, a flicker of excitement sparking in his voice. "Guess it's time to get wet."

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala crouched at the storage compartment Balun had mentioned, her fingers fumbling slightly as she pulled the rebreather suits free with a victorious noise. “Behold,” she whispered, eyes wide with mock reverence, “the glamorous life of Jedi fieldwork. Tactical, dignified, mildly clammy.”

She tossed one of the suits to Balun before shimmying into her own—arms and legs doing an awkward waltz as she fought with the pressure seal zipper. “I swear, these things are made for humans with extra elbows.”

Despite her quiet grumbling, there was a reverence to her movements beneath the playfulness. As the helmet sealed with a gentle hiss and the suit systems calibrated, her entire posture softened. Even the silly grin she gave Balun as she caught his eye was tempered with something gentler—like she knew, in her bones, that they were about to step into something ancient.

“Okay. Checklist.” She wiggled her gloved fingers. “Breathable air? Check. Oxygen flow? Check. Sense of spiritual purpose and mild terror? Also check.”

She stood by the airlock hatch now, fingers ghosting over the panel. Her voice dropped, quieter again, the grin fading into something more still.

“You ready?”

A beat. Then, with a soft hiss and click, the outer door slid open.

The ocean welcomed them.

The light from the Bongo cast long golden beams into the dark, illuminating swirling silt and the glow of the crystal garden below. The formations stretched in every direction—spires and curls and branches of translucent stone, blooming like frozen fire in slow-motion.

Ala took her first step out.

Bubbles trailed upward as she moved, her body weightless and graceful in the soft current. She turned slowly, hair billowing around her like a nebula trapped in a helmet, and reached out to touch nothing—just to exist in it.

“This place…” Her voice crackled softly over the comm link in her suit. “I think it’s singing.”

And with quiet kicks of her flippers, she drifted forward—toward the glowing bloom.

| Balun Dashiell |​

 

[Balun Dashiell]

THREAD TITLE: TO SINK OR SWIM
INVENTORY: Spacer Apparel, Lightsaber & K-16 Bryar Pistol
TAGS: Ala Quin

​

"Well, chit, if this isn't awkward," Balun muttered under his breath, wrestling with the stubborn folds of his diving suit in the cramped confines of the Bongo. First day meeting Ala Quin , and here they were—crammed into a submersible with barely enough room to stretch, let alone change into diving gear. He knew he had to shed his jacket and undershirt, but he was determined not to make things any more uncomfortable than necessary.

Grimacing, he shoved his legs into the suit first, struggling to wedge the material over his pants, an effort that earned him a quiet grunt as he wrestled with the stubborn fabric. The Bongo rocked ever so slightly with each awkward motion, the dim interior filled with the soft hum of its systems and the occasional muffled rustle of clothing.

With a resigned sigh, Balun yanked his shirt over his head, the fabric bunching and twisting before finally coming free. For a moment, his torso was exposed to the soft light of the cabin—an unintentional reveal of the quiet testimony written across his skin.

Scars. Countless marks of survival.

A jagged slash carved from the back of his shoulder down to his hip—a souvenir from a saber strike that had nearly ended his life. The blow had caught him off-guard, searing deep through flesh and narrowly missing his vitals as he fell back, retreating under the cover fire of his squad. A pair of small, round scars pocked his side, reminders of blaster impacts that his light armour hadn't fully absorbed. Together, they told the silent history of his years on the battlefield, of the war against the Empire of the Lost, of the cost of defiance.

Balun hardly thought of them anymore; they had become part of him, familiar as breath. But as the quiet moment stretched between them, he became sharply aware of Ala's presence—and realised, belatedly, how jarring the sight of his body might be to someone unaccustomed to such marks. Without a word, he slipped the diving suit over his torso, the motion swift and practised, masking any flicker of self-consciousness. Zipping it up, he cast Ala a crooked grin and raised a thumb in the universal signal of ready.

Then, without hesitation, he followed her toward the airlock.

The shift from cabin to open water was like stepping from one world into another.

As they glided free of the Bongo, the ocean opened around them in an endless expanse of liquid sapphire. The search lamp on Balun's headgear flicked on with a quiet click, casting a pale beam through the dark water, catching flashes of darting fish and the subtle shimmer of the crystals ahead. The sensation was immediate and exhilarating—the cool embrace of the deep, the weightlessness, the way the Force stirred and pulsed here, wrapping around the Crystal Gardens in currents both seen and unseen.

For the first time in what felt like ages, time wasn't something he measured in strategy or survival. With the rebreather easing each breath and the freedom of movement around him, Balun let himself savour the moment.

Pushing gently against the water with his arms, he descended alongside Ala, letting the currents guide him, drawn forward by the glow of the crystals.

"I don't think I've ever heard the Force make a sound like this before—not one that wasn't carried through the mind, at least," Balun murmured, his voice soft, almost reverent as it crackled faintly through the comms. "It's extraordinary… like the Force is flowing with the tide itself. Or maybe," he paused, a faint smile tugging at his voice, "it's the tide that's following the Force."

"Speech".
'Thought'.​

 

[Ala Quin]

Ala hadn’t looked away when Balun changed.

She hadn’t stared, either. But she saw them.

The scars. Not just the obvious ones—the saber’s long burn, the clustered blaster wounds—but the way he moved around them. The way his body remembered pain, and worked with it, instead of against it. She said nothing. Her eyes flicked once over his form with the silent reverence of someone studying a battlefield after the smoke cleared.

There was a story in every mark, and Force help her, she wanted to ask about all of them. Wanted to reach out, not in pity, but with that warm ache that always bloomed in her chest when she saw someone who had been broken, and still chose to stand.

Instead, she offered him a quiet smile, sealed her helmet, and stepped out into wonder.

---

The world outside the Bongo shimmered with movement and meaning.

The crystal garden rose like a mirage from the seafloor, sprawling outward in slow-growing spirals, shapes refracting like distant stars. Ala’s breath hitched as her boots touched down softly on the shelf. The Force thrummed here—not loudly, but intimately, like a whisper meant for only her.

She stepped forward, one hand drifting near a cluster of crystals that spiraled outward in sharp fractal geometry. Every edge caught the light differently, shimmering in hues no language could name. Her fingers hovered just shy of touching them—

And then the world fell away.

---

She stood again on that lonely cliff, wind tearing at her coat, saber blazing gold in the dark. The monsters below clawed and screamed, masses of horror churning at the base of the rise. Behind her: the shuttle. The evac. The last escape.

And the padawan—young, afraid, clutching a baby to her chest. Ala’s gaze locked onto the child, heart stuttering in her chest with the instinctive pull of something ancient. Familial.

Hers.

She knew it with clarity. With ache. With purpose. The child wasn’t just someone’s. The child was hers.

And Balun was there.

Not part of the vision—but watching. Like the Force had allowed him to bear witness, to know what she carried. He stood apart from it, in that strange veil between now and not-now, shadowed by the edges of memory, but present.

Ala turned once more toward the edge. The tide of monsters was rising fast, shrieking, clawing. Her death was seconds away. Still, she smiled toward the shuttle as it pulled away—eyes lingering on the child.

A final choice.

A last defense.

Ala’s body met the horde as light swallowed everything.

---

She gasped.

Weightless again in water. Her hand trembled near the crystal. The garden pulsed softly. The Force quieted.

She didn’t speak. Not yet. But when she finally turned toward Balun, her eyes were wide—not afraid, not broken.

Just full.

| Balun Dashiell |​