The missile was closing in, and gradually Quinn had been able to catch up with it, but it still wasn't enough. Time was running out; no matter where that missile landed, it was going to wreak havoc on the landscape and send all sorts of flotsam, jetsam, and shrapnel in every direction, not to mention the concussive wave produced by the release of such potent energy. No matter where it landed, someone was going to have an awful day, but it wasn't going to be the defenders of this planet, Quinn swore to that. 

First, he had to get in range, and as much as he liked firing at enemy ships from afar, he needed to be precise when he struck this missile, which meant getting up close and personal.

In a stroke of instinctual genius, the Gurlanin looked to the shield systems and began to modify them, tune them to just the right frequency to let the fighter slide as easily through air as it would through space. Then, with a little more fine-tuning, he calibrated the shield projector to form an arrowhead-shaped shield around the vessel, pointing its tip to cut through the wind with curved lines that allowed for the easy travel of molecules away from his ship. A sudden jolt of speed told the spy he'd succeeded, and within seconds, he'd come extremely close to the missile's engines. It would have been so easy to knock them out, shove a torpedo up its rear, and watch it come crashing down.

But the yield of a proton torpedo mixed with whatever they had put in the warhead was unimaginably scary, and fear almost gripped him as he ran through various scenarios until he decided blaster cannons would have to do the trick. Pushing the fighter higher to get a better angle of attack on the projectile, Quinn calibrated the position of the guns virtually from the cockpit before he let a burst fly toward what he thought was the weak spot in its armor. When shields flashed and the cannon blasts dissipated or flew off in several directions, the Ace swore. He should have known the Sith lord was careful enough to separate himself and Kiani, now he'd ensured the destruction of the refugee camp.

...Or had he?

Quinn's inventory of the weapon list earlier had lacked one thing: a complete oversight on his part until he looked again and found it: A high-powered monodirectional heavy ion cannon. Thank the Force for giving the designers an idea like that. Soon enough, the weapon was charged, and as Quinn again locked onto the weak spot, he let the barrage strike into the shields and watched them flash out of existence. But it wasn't enough; the missile barely slowed from the friction of the air on its hull instead of its shields, and its trajectory stayed on course. Time was running out; in three minutes, that missile would be in its most extended possible optimal range to destroy at least an outermost section of the camp.

The wind shrieked around him, shearing past the arrowhead shield in a scream of fractured sound. Quinn's hands gripped the controls tight, not from fear, but because every fraction of a millimeter mattered now. His ship trembled—not from strain, but from the nearness of consequence.

Below him, the land blurred—a patchwork of brittle trees and makeshift shelters, their shadows stretching like reaching hands. The missile tore ahead, its engine glow seething like a second sun. He was closing in. But not fast enough.

He'd never flown like this—no room for elegance, only desperation. The fighter surged forward, trimmed for speed, tuned like a blade. In his chest: not panic, not even anger—just that aching, searing hope that somehow, somehow, he could reach it in time.

And then he saw it: a child clambering outside a tent, chasing after a wind-tossed scrap of cloth. Unaware. Unafraid.

Quinn's breath broke.

He pulled up, brought the ion cannon into line, and whispered to the Force—not a command, but a plea.

Rovnak didn't shout. He didn't need to.

He stepped close, eyes locked with Vallyn's as the sky screamed louder above them. "Now," he said, voice edged with fire and faith. "Time for a miracle."

And she moved.

Dropped to her knees as though the Force itself had struck her down. The air warped—pressure dipping, then spiking, like the world was holding its breath. She plunged her consciousness outward, not with finesse, but with fury wrapped in purpose.

The ground beneath her cracked in spidering veins. Her fingers clawed into the soil, veins lighting beneath her skin like starlines. Blood beaded from one nostril, then the other. She didn't blink.

Through the Force, she grasped the missile—not its body, but its trajectory. Its will to move forward. And she pressed.

The projectile staggered mid-air. Not much. Barely a breath. But enough.

Quinn surged closer.

Vallyn screamed—but only in the Force, where time heard everything.

Quinn couldn't believe what he saw the missile seen to shutter, like it was slowing down. The ion cannon needed time to recharge. This ship had been modified to include a strong hyperdrive and shields, while sacrificing energy output to the ion cannon. Seconds felt like hours, each one an eternity, as the charge slowly made its way up the bar until finally it was ready to fire again. Whatever just happened bought him the time he needed

 Without hesitation, Quinn fired the ion blast, hit the brakes, and, for good measure, fired as many cannon bursts into the engines as possible. Struck off course and tumbling through the sky, the missile headed for the ground, and Quinn realized then his mistake.

He was too close.

A flash of intense light burst from the forest below, even as Quinn turned the vessel around and headed in the other direction while attempting to coax every ounce of energy out of different systems and into the engines. Before he could be cut off by the explosion that trailed behind him, ready to overtake him, he sent one word into The Force.

Kiani.