Surface Tension

Quinel woke to the sound of his own breathing in the unfamiliar room. For a moment he couldn’t place where he was—then it came back. Cloud City. Garaath’s apartment. Safe, for now.

He sat up and scrubbed his hands over the stubble on his face. The whisky had left a familiar ache behind his eyes, and he’d gotten maybe four hours of actual sleep. Every time he’d started to drift off, his mind would circle back to Ghauba. The streets. The bodies. Damika’s last words.

He freshened up before dressing for the day and stepped into the common area. Dez stood by the window, photoreceptors fixed on the endless orange clouds of Bespin beyond the transparisteel.

“Garaath sent a message,” Dez said without turning. “Breakfast will arrive shortly. He requests we meet him at the landing platform in roughly one hour.”

“Understood.” Quinel moved to the kitchenette and started working the caf dispenser. The machine wheezed like it had opinions about being used this early.

Behind him, a door slid open.

Tammea emerged from her room looking like she’d been through a firefight. Her purple hair stuck up at odd angles, dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her skin had taken on a washed-out quality that made the pink seem faded. But she smiled—bright and immediate, like someone had flipped a switch.

“Good morning!” Her voice had that same forced cheer. “Did you sleep well?”

Quinel paused with the caf mug halfway to his mouth. Something about the energy radiating off her felt wrong. Too much, too bright, like she was trying to light up a dark room with a single glowrod.

“Well enough,” he said carefully. “How about you? Get any rest?”

She moved past him to examine the caf dispenser, deflecting. “This is a nice place. Really nice. Thank you for—I mean, thank Garaath for setting this up. It’s much better than the ship. Not that the ship is bad! The ship is great, I just meant—”

“Kid.” He kept his voice gentle. “Did you sleep?”

Her hands stilled on the dispenser controls. For just a second, the brightness flickered. Then it snapped back into place, even more intense.

“I honestly tried,” she said. “But I’m okay though. Really.”

She wasn’t okay. Anyone could see that. But Quinel had no idea how to push without making things worse, so he just nodded and went back to his caf.

The silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and heavy.

Dez’s photoreceptors swiveled to observe them both. He said nothing, but Quinel could feel the weight of that mechanical stare.

Breakfast arrived right on schedule—some kind of pastry and imported fruit that probably cost more than Quinel wanted to think about. They ate in relative quiet, Tammea picking at her food with that same manic energy, occasionally asking questions about Cloud City that felt just a hair too enthusiastic.

Quinel answered as best he could, watching her carefully. She was present in a way she hadn’t been last night, actually engaging and responding. But something about it felt off-kilter. Like she was performing rather than participating.

“We should get moving,” he said once their plates were cleared. “Don’t want to keep Garaath waiting.”

---

The walk to the landing platform should have been pleasant. Morning light filtered through Bespin’s upper atmosphere, casting Cloud City in soft gold. The crowds were lighter than yesterday, mostly early-shift workers and a few maintenance crews.

Tammea walked between Quinel and Dez, her head on a swivel, taking in everything with that same too-bright intensity. She asked more questions—about the architecture, about the people, about how the city maintained altitude. Good questions, curious questions, but delivered with an edge that made Quinel’s shoulders tense.

The mechanic was at work putting the Stray back together when they arrived, an older Sullustan with grease-stained coveralls and the confident movements of someone who’d been doing this for decades. He straightened when he saw them approach.

“Your ship’s in good shape, Captain,” he said, his jowls wobbling slightly as he spoke. “Whoever’s been maintaining her knows what they’re doing. Sensor array’s fixed, stabilizer’s been replaced entirely—that jury-rig you had going was clever, but it wouldn’t have lasted another jump. Shield emitter’s patched and reinforced.”

“Appreciate it,” Quinel said. “What about the tracker sweep?”

“That’s Garaath’s department. He’ll want to talk to you about it.” The Sullustan pulled out a datapad and started scrolling through readouts. “Climate controls should be working now too. Replaced the faulty relay.”

“What was wrong with the sensor array?” Tammea’s voice cut in, bright and curious.

The mechanic blinked, clearly not expecting the question. “Uh, debris impact damage mostly. Few of the forward sensors were completely dead, others were degraded. Why?”

“Which sensors specifically?” She stepped closer, peering at his datapad. “The long-range scanners or the proximity sensors?”

“Both, actually. The debris took out a whole section of the forward array housing.” He tilted the datapad so she could see. “See here? This is where the impact sheared off the mounting bracket.”

Tammea studied the schematic, her purple eyes tracking across the display. “So you had to replace the entire housing unit? Not just the individual sensor modules?”

“That’s right.” The mechanic’s tone had shifted from surprised to impressed. “The bracket damage compromised the whole assembly. Couldn’t just swap out the broken sensors.”

“Makes sense. The brackets provide the calibration alignment, right? If they’re off, the sensors won’t read accurately even if they’re not damaged.”

The Sullustan hummed in approval. “You’ve worked on ships before?”

“A little,” Tammea said, and for just a moment something genuine flickered across her face—pleasure at being taken seriously, at understanding something. Then the forced brightness snapped back. “I mean, not really. Just watched someone work on them once. I don’t really know much.”

Quinel watched the exchange, filing away another piece of information about the girl. She was bright. Not just curious—actually intelligent, able to follow technical explanations that would lose most adults.

The mechanic launched into an explanation of the repair process, and Tammea absorbed it like a sponge, asking follow-up questions that showed she was actually understanding what he said. The Sullustan seemed happy to have an interested audience, warming to the subject.

A shadow fell across them.

“I see we have quite the little interrogator,” Garaath said, his gravelly voice tinged with amusement. The old Twi’lek looked exactly as he had yesterday—worn clothes, sharp eyes, that air of having seen everything and being impressed by none of it.

“She’s got a good head for this stuff,” the mechanic said. “Picks things up quick.”

“Always a useful skill.” Garaath’s gaze shifted to Quinel. “Walk with me a minute. We need to talk.”

Quinel glanced at Tammea, who was still absorbed in the mechanic’s explanation of power routing. “You good here for a minute?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, barely looking up.

He nodded to her as he and Garaath moved a short distance away, far enough for privacy but close enough that Quinel could still see her. Garaath pulled out a datapad.

“Tracker sweep found something,” he said without preamble. “Attached to your landing gear housing. Damaged, though—looks like it took a hit during your escape.”

Quinel’s stomach tightened. “Empire?”

“Can’t say for certain. It was too slagged to pull any identifying information. Could be Imperial, could be something else entirely.” Garaath’s lekku twitched. “Either way, it’s gone now. My people made sure.”

“Something else? Like what?”

“Bounty hunters, corporate security, someone with a personal grudge—make any new enemies lately? Dark Times mean everyone’s tracking everyone, Kid.” Garaath slipped the datapad back into his coat. “I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. The thing’s destroyed and aside from your old puck you’re not showing up on any active bounty boards I can access. You’re probably fine.”

Probably. Quinel tucked that bit of information away to worry about later. Right now, he had bigger concerns.

“The kid’s not doing well,” he said quietly.

“I noticed.” Garaath glanced over at Tammea, who was asking the mechanic something about power couplings with that same manic enthusiasm. “What do you know about Zeltrons?”

“Not much. Empaths, right? And the pheromone thing.”

“That’s part of it.” Garaath’s expression softened slightly. “Zeltrons feel emotions—everyone’s emotions—several times more intensely than the source usually does. It’s not just sensing, kid. They experience it as if it’s their own. In crowds, with strong emotions, it can be overwhelming.”

Quinel thought about their visit to the Dancing Jawa when they first arrived yesterday, how Tammea had seemed to shrink in on herself with all those people around. He’d thought she was just scared.

“They can also project their emotions onto others,” Garaath continued. “Make you feel what they’re feeling. Usually it’s unconscious, especially in kids. The pheromones amplify it—create trust, comfort, euphoria. It’s their biology.”

“Okay, but what does this have to do with—”

“When they’re stressed, exhausted, traumatized?” Garaath cut him off. “They lose control. Can’t stop themselves from broadcasting everything they’re feeling. Can’t control the pheromones. And Kid—” His voice dropped. “Zeltrons need joy, community, positive emotions like we need air and water. They’re built for celebration and connection. That kid’s had nothing but years of running from the Empire, and now she’s been orphaned. That girl is drowning.”

Quinel looked back at Tammea. She was laughing at something the mechanic said, but even from here he could see the brittle quality to it.

“There’s more,” Garaath said. “You need to manage your own emotions around her. She picks up on what you’re feeling—not your thoughts, but your emotional state. If you’re wallowing in guilt or grief, she feels that too. Makes everything worse for her.”

The words hit like a physical blow. The anxiety he’d been feeling since yesterday, the guilt about Ghauba, his own trauma—she’d been experiencing all of it. He’d been hurting her without even knowing.

“How do I—” He stopped, not sure how to finish the question.

“Try to stay positive. Give her space when she needs it, support when she asks. Don’t lie about how you feel, but don’t drown in it either.” Garaath’s lekku curled sympathetically. “It’s not easy, kid. But you made the promise. Now you’ve got to figure out how to keep it.”

Quinel watched Tammea gesture animatedly at some component on the mechanic’s datapad. Even as she did, he noticed her skin seemed slightly darker than it had been this morning. Not much, just enough to register as wrong.

“She hasn’t slept,” he said. “Not since before we left Ghauba.”

Garaath’s expression darkened. “That’s not good. Without sleep, without time to process—her control’s going to slip completely.”

Quinel studied the girl, Dez standing nearby as he kept up a watchful eye. “How am I supposed to help her though?”

“That’s on you to manage, Kid, but the longer you take, the more it actively harms her. Zeltrons are only as healthy as their emotional state. Negativity affects them in ways most of us can’t begin to truly understand.” Garaath gave Quinel a serious but empathetic look. “If I were you, I’d figure things out before too long.”

Quinel nodded in understanding, even as Tammea continued chattering away at the mechanic.

---

Quinel tried. He really did.

They left the landing platform and headed into the city proper, moving through the commercial districts where tourists and locals mixed freely. After Garaath’s words, he’d thought maybe giving Tammea something normal—shopping for clothes and supplies—might help. Let her feel like a kid for a bit instead of a refugee.

It started well enough. The first shop they visited was small and clean, selling basic clothing and necessities. Tammea gravitated immediately toward items in blues and purples, holding up a deep blue tunic against herself.

“What do you think?” she asked, that forced brightness still in her voice.

“Looks good,” Quinel said, trying to project calm, trying to push aside his own anxiety. “Get whatever you need.”

She picked out several items quickly—practical choices mixed with a few things clearly chosen just because she liked the colors. The merchant, a human woman who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, processed the purchase with mechanical efficiency.

But as they moved through the district, Quinel started noticing things.

People gave them a wide berth. Not obviously—nothing he could point to directly—but there was a subtle shift in the crowd’s movement around them. Conversations would pause as they passed, then resume with an edge of discomfort.

A Rodian merchant at a food stall snapped at them when Tammea asked about the pastries on display, his tone harsh for no apparent reason.

“Just decide or move along,” he said. “I don’t have time for—”

“Sorry,” Tammea said immediately, backing away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—we’ll just go.”

Quinel gave the Rodian a withering look as he bought something anyway, more out of spite than hunger, but the interaction left a sour taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the food.

As the afternoon wore on, Tammea’s skin continued to darken. The pale pink from this morning had shifted to a deeper shade, almost like a flush that wouldn’t fade. Her movements became more erratic, her cheerfulness taking on a desperate quality.

Quinel felt his own anxiety ratcheting higher with every passing minute. Something was wrong—deeply, fundamentally wrong—and he didn’t know how to fix it. The feeling pressed down on him like gravity, making his chest tight, his thoughts scattered.

Was this what Garaath had warned him about? Was he making it worse just by being stressed?

He tried to push the anxiety down, tried to project calm, but it felt like trying to hold water in cupped hands. The more he tried, the more it slipped away.

They were in a broader marketplace now, vendors hawking everything from ship parts to exotic foods. The crowds had thickened, voices overlapping, emotions running high with the commerce and haggling.

Tammea had gone very still beside him.

Her skin had darkened to a troubling reddish-purple, her breathing coming faster. Her eyes darted from face to face, person to person, like she was tracking threats from every direction.

“Hey,” Quinel said gently, crouching down to her eye level. “You okay?”

She nodded too quickly. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine.

---

The emotions were crushing her.

Tammea stood in the middle of the marketplace and felt like she was drowning. Every person around her was a wave of feeling—irritation, impatience, anxiety, greed, exhaustion—all of it crashing over her in overwhelming surges. She felt each emotion several times stronger than the people experiencing them, layered and overlapping until she couldn’t tell where they ended and she began.

Quinel’s worry pressed against her like a hand on her chest. He was trying to stay calm, she could feel that, but underneath it was guilt and fear and a desperate need to protect her that only made everything more intense. His anxiety fed hers, which fed his, a loop that kept amplifying.

She tried to project calm. Tried to smooth everything over with her pheromones, make people comfortable, make the wrongness stop. But she was so tired. Every time she reached for that control, it slipped away. Her pheromones and projection abilities were misfiring, broadcasting her fear and desperation outward instead of the calm she wanted.

People around them were getting uncomfortable. She could feel their confusion, their inexplicable irritation, all because she couldn’t stop herself from affecting them.

This is wrong. This is the deepest sin. Stop it. Stop it.

But she couldn’t. The more she tried to control it, the more it spiraled out of her grasp.

A vendor three stalls over suddenly snapped at his customer over nothing. Two humans nearby started arguing, their voices rising. A Twi’lek woman pulled her child closer and hurried past, shooting them a look Tammea didn’t understand.

It’s me. I’m doing this. I’m making everyone feel wrong and I can’t stop.

The guilt crashed over her in waves. Shame, bone-deep and terrible. Zeltrons didn’t manipulate emotions. They didn’t broadcast their pain onto others. It was the most fundamental violation of everything she’d been taught, and she was doing it anyway, unable to stop herself.

She felt herself hyperventilating. The edges of her vision started to tunnel.

Too much. Too many people. Too many feelings. Can’t think. Can’t control it. Can’t stop.

“Kid?” Quinel’s hand on her shoulder made it worse—she felt his concern spike, felt it amplify her own panic, felt the feedback loop spinning faster.

“No,” she gasped, backing away. “Get away from me, you’re making it worse!”

The confusion that hit him hurt almost as much as everything else.

---

Quinel didn’t understand what was happening. One moment he was trying to help, the next Tammea was backing away from him like he was a threat, her breathing rapid and shallow, her skin that deep reddish-purple that made her look feverish.

“Easy,” he said, hands up, trying to project calm even though his heart was racing. “It’s okay, I’m not—”

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“What the hell are you doing to her?” A human man—thick-shouldered, with the kind of face that had seen too many cantina fights—glared at him with naked hostility.

“Nothing,” Quinel said, trying to keep his voice level. “Just mind your own business and keep walking.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” The man’s hand moved to the blaster at his hip. “Looks like you’re scaring the kid.”

Tammea was still backing away, hands pressed to her temples, making small distressed sounds. Other people were starting to notice, starting to watch, and Quinel felt the situation spiraling completely out of his control.

“Look, she’s with me,” Quinel said. “We’re fine. Just having a rough day.”

“I don’t think she wants to come with you.” The man pulled out his blaster, a battered DL-18 that had seen better years. “Now leave her alone before I put a bolt through your head.”

Dez, the former Separatist combat prototype, stepped forward, his heavy frame positioning itself between Quinel and the armed man. His arm servos retracted with a mechanical whir, revealing the integrated blaster cannons in his forearms.

“I possess significantly more firepower than your pistol,” Dez said flatly. “I suggest you lower your weapon and reassess your tactical position.”

The man’s eyes widened, but he didn’t lower the blaster. “A fracking combat droid? What the frack kind of—”

Quinel wasn’t listening to him anymore. His attention had snapped back to Tammea, who was backed against a vendor’s booth, eyes squeezed shut, shaking. She looked like she was coming apart at the seams.

“Tammea—”

Her eyes flew open. For a second they locked on his, wide and terrified and full of something that looked like guilt.

Then she bolted.

She took off running into the crowd, small and fast and desperate. People scattered out of her way, some shouting in surprise.

“Dammit,” Quinel lunged after her, ignoring the man with the blaster, ignoring Dez, ignoring everything except the small purple-haired figure now rapidly disappearing into the marketplace. “Kid, wait!”

Behind him, someone shouted. A blaster bolt seared past his ear close enough that he smelled the ozone.

He didn’t stop.

The chase took them through the marketplace, down a level to a service corridor. Quinel pushed through the crowds, heart hammering, keeping that small figure barely in sight. She was faster than he expected, fueled by panic, taking corners without slowing.

He lost sight of her for a moment—his chest seized with fear—then caught a glimpse of purple hair heading down another level, into the industrial areas where the tourists didn’t go. Quinel found the stairs she had gone down and took them three at a time.

The corridors changed. Cleaner metal gave way to functional grating, maintenance conduits, the thrumming machinery that kept Cloud City aloft. There were fewer people here, mostly technicians who barely glanced up as they ran past. Those who kept the city in working order had long-since learned that it was always best to turn a blind eye to other people’s affairs.

Tammea was ahead, running blind, not looking where she was going.

Then Quinel saw it.

The corridor ended thirty meters ahead in a large vertical shaft—one of Cloud City’s massive ventilation systems, open to the churning atmosphere thousands of meters below. A safety railing marked the edge, but it was low, barely waist-high.

She wasn’t slowing down.

Terror jolted through him like electricity.

“TAMMEA, STOP!”

She didn’t hear him. Didn’t see the danger. Just kept running, blind with panic, heading straight for the edge.

Quinel put everything he had into closing the distance. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he pushed harder, faster, watching that small figure sprint toward the drop like it didn’t exist.

Ten meters.

Five.

He threw himself forward in a diving lunge just as she reached the edge. His hand caught her arm, his momentum carrying them both away from the shaft in a graceless tumble. They hit the deck plating hard, Quinel instinctively twisting to take the impact.

They lay there for a moment, both gasping, Quinel’s hand still locked around her arm in a death grip.

He looked over at the ventilation shaft—the open edge, the safety railing that wouldn’t have stopped her momentum, the endless orange clouds churning far below.

His hands started shaking.

“Hey,” he managed, still trying to catch his breath. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Nothing happened.”

Tammea stared at the shaft, realization dawning on her face. Then something broke. A sob tore out of her, then another, her small frame shaking with the force of it.

“I didn’t mean to,” she gasped between sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, I can’t control it anymore, I can’t—”

“Tammea, that wasn’t your fault—”

“You don’t understand!” The words came out raw and desperate. “It’s too much. Everyone’s feelings, they’re crushing me and I can’t stop broadcasting and I’m making everyone feel wrong and it’s the worst thing you can do and I can’t stop—”

Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Dez appeared, shopping bags hanging off one arm. His optical sensors immediately assessed the scene—Quinel and Tammea on the deck, the ventilation shaft, the near-miss that didn’t need to be stated.

“The man with the blaster has been neutralized,” Dez reported. “I take it we have completed with this afternoon’s shopping?”

“I think so,” Quinel replied wearily, then looked at Dez more sharply. “Wait, how did you find us?”

“I followed the sounds of alarmed civilians and disrupted vendors. You left quite a noticeable trail.”

Under other circumstances, that might have been funny.

Quinel stood slowly, then helped a sniffling Tammea to her feet. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t look at anything except the deck plating.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get back to the apartment.”

---

They took a different route back—quieter corridors, fewer crowds. Tammea walked between them in silence, her skin still that troubling reddish-purple, looking like she might collapse at any moment. Quinel kept a careful eye on her, ready to catch her if she faltered.

No one spoke. What was there to say?

The apartment felt too quiet after the chaos of the marketplace. Tammea moved to the couch and sat down heavily, her hands shaking, her eyes fixed on nothing.

Standing near the window, Quinel tried to find words. Tried to figure out what to say that wouldn’t be hollow or useless.

“What happened back there,” he started. “I mean, that wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was flat, empty. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

He wanted to tell her it was okay. Wanted to tell her they’d figure it out. But the words died in his throat because he didn’t know if they were true.

“If it helps, I did not terminate that man,” Dez said, his flat tone cutting through the silence. “Even after he fired his weapon. This represents significant restraint on my part.”

“Good job, Dez,” Quinel said, his own voice more harsh than he’d intended.

“I am merely stating facts. Restraint is statistically unusual in combat scenarios involving—”

Quinel sighed as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he began pacing.

Tammea stood up and moved toward her room without a single word, without looking at either of them.

“Kid, wait—”

The door slid shut behind her with a quiet hiss.

Then they heard it. The lock engaging. A deliberate sound, a barrier being raised.

Quinel and Dez stood in the common area, staring at the closed door.

“I do believe that is not a good sign,” Dez said matter-of-factly.

“No, it’s not.”

Quinel sank into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. Tammea had been awake for something close to thirty-eight hours now, maybe more. She’d nearly died. She was drowning in guilt and exhaustion and emotions she couldn’t control.

And Quinel had absolutely no idea how to help her.

---