"Bastila looked into those horrid, cruel yellow eyes and felt fear stab in her soul; there was no life in those eyes, nothing. Lord Malak growled. 'Join me, Bastila...' he growled with a mechanical voice."
Ahah, so I embark upon another story. This is... quite different from the romantic humor of the Gizka story. I warn you now, this is not for anyone but mature readers, as what is encluded in this story is all of the horrors if a prisoner of war, and more. The psychological horror is great, and the gore and sexual factors are upped as well. Anyways, have a great read.
- Schwartze
Day 1
Bastila woke up alone, cold and on a hard, uneven metal floor. Limbs splayed out at unnatural angles, Bastila groaned loudly, her voice cracking and skipping from her throat being scratchy and parched. Feeling as if her skull was cracking down the center, Bastila's thoughts were jumbled and for some reason she was unable to even process a single thought before the pain made cognitive function too difficult. It was hard to breathe on her stomach, but she couldn't roll over; she had absolutely no energy in the darkness. Revan? Bastila's thoughts conjured a calm, safe sensation inside of her, but she couldn't bring up the memory of who that named belong to, only that one emotion. All she knew is that the word "Revan" brought about a feeling – a good feeling. Her legs felt as if they were going to rot and decay on the spot such was her pain, and each fingertip felt as if it was roasting against a lightsaber. Stop… Please, make… Pain. Force.
Finally mustering what strength and courage she had in a reserve deep within, Bastila rolled herself over, immediately crying out in pain from sheer reflex and regretting her action – if the single feeling she could hold on to could be considered regret. Blood slid down her cheeks from an aggravated wound, and she struggled to open her eyelids, finding that there was a sharp, stabbing pain behind each eye that reverberated back into herhead and neck. Death. Please. Pain… Force… so much pain. Bring death.
Inwardly she was sobbing, crying out of sheer agony, but her body was unable to match what her mind was imagining; tears couldn't fall from dry, bloodshot eyes. Shuddering from the cold, Bastila coughed, tasting something metallic in her mouth and knowing that taste all too well. The tremors that ripped through her body in an effort to warm it up also caused her intense muscle pain and cramping, rendering Bastila completely helpless to the blinding anguish that plagued her.
The pain soon became too much and her mind shut itself down, leaving Bastila unconscious on the floor in a cold, damp and lonely cell.
--
Darth Malak stood in an observation tower above his Jedi prisoner's window, and had he possessed a mouth, he would have been smirking in sadistic pleasure. Watching the attractive and absolutely helpless Jedi-girl made him feel powerful, and his eyes narrowed as she cried out, the sound sending a shiver of pleasure up his spine. Oh yes, he would have much fun toying with this one. It wasn't everyday that he had the honor of treating a lady prisoner of war, and he intended to make her time here… unique to say the least.
Of course it helped that she was so stunning. Malak's bright, yellow eyes roved over her face now that she had turned herself over. The girl had deep brunette hair that shone despite the single red light in the cell, and her skin was absolutely flawless on her face, despite the crusty head injury – so smooth and pale. He longed to grasp her feminine jaw in his hands, force her blue-grey eyes to meet his own and see the fear he induced in them. Yes, yes, that was what he wanted – fear.
The girl's Jedi robes were tattered and worn, and there were large gashes in the fabric where his lightsaber had severed the threads, causing the material to fall away. Her long, elegant neck was exposed to his roving eyes, and he saw that everything there was perfect as well. Was she as stunning everywhere else? He intended to find out.
After allowing his eyes one more once over of her body, he turned brusquely and addressed a guard.
"You," he said in his guttural, metallic voice. "Take her to med-bay, but keep her under. Bring her right back…" he trailed, searching the soldier's eyes.
The soldier stiffened and saluted sharply, feeling laid bare by Malak's penetrating gaze. "Yes, Lord Malak," he replied firmly.
"Good," Malak replied before shooting the guard a knowing and warning look that only offered pain as an alternative if his orders were not met. "And I don't want to hear about any detours with the Jedi…" his metallic voice growled. "She will remain intact… for now."
The soldier stiffened again as his thoughts had been read, and he quickly and guiltily bowed his head deferentially before leaving immediately, turning on his heel and professionally marching out of the watch chamber.
Lord Malak cast a single glance back at the unconscious Jedi on the ground before leaving the chamber, his cloak billowing in his wake as his tall, imposing form strode down the hallway from the high security wartime chambers. Malak glanced to the side as a stretcher and four medical technicians passed by to the Jedi-girl's cell.
Day 2
After eighteen hours of unconsciousness, Bastila felt her mind begin to rouse again. The pain was lessened but still apparent, and Bastila could actually think more clearly now, though her thoughts were still distant. Where am I? She wondered, looking around the room she was in.
The room was small – only large enough to comfortably fit four people. The floors were of a strange matte black metal, though dull, rusted and stained, and the walls were exactly the same. An outline of a door stood against the wall opposite of Bastila, but it appeared to be completely sealed. Looking up, Bastila saw the vent to the room and series of metal chains; she shuddered at the sight of their cold, steely gaze.
Nothing moved in the space, not even the air. Everything was perfectly still and perfectly quiet; the only noise was the sound of her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. The sounds of her heartbeat were soon drowned out by the obnoxiously loud and almost painful noise of her over-cloth rustling as she tried to move again. Not a good idea. A blooming pain spread up Bastila's arm and she cried out again. Is it broken? Testing her fingers, she found that she could feel the floor beneath them, so there was no nerve damage. But what had hurt so much? Looking down at her arm, she furrowed her brows, seeing large industrial stitching running from her forearm, through the crook of her elbow, and halfway up her bicep. She furrowed her brows, feeling a deep panic rising inside of her; that was a horrid injury, and she remembered nothing, not even who did the stitching. Now Bastila tested out the rest of her body, taking turns with her limbs and the pain while trying to ignore the fact that her unconscious body had been worked on and who knows what else in a medical lab.
Her toes were relatively undamaged, but she could tell that one of them had bled profusely; there was a sticky and old, crunchy feeling inside of her boot that screamed of dried and coagulated blood. The skin on her legs was bruised, cut and altogether grotesque, but the bones were in decent condition which was all that mattered to her now. Moving up, she felt that her hips were relatively functional, but burned painfully if she tried to move them at all.
Trying to arch her spine was like trying to shove a stake through your eye socket; the pain radiated from her back in a sharp, ripping jolt and a cry escaped from her lips again. It wasn't bone. Thank the Force it wasn't bone. The muscles in her back had seized and cramped, and she could tell that she had a few large cuts across her skin from the painful stretching sensation.
Grimacing, Bastila picked up her heavy, unresponsive arms and ran them up her front, making sure that everything was in place. Thankfully, everything seemed healthy, and though her body felt as if it would fall apart at any moment, no bones were broken. Taking a deep breath, Bastila mentally prepared herself for a task at hand. She was going to try and sit up. Her temper flared; it shouldn't be so hard just to rise half-way, and Bastila hated being such an invalid.
Inhaling deeply, Bastila put her arms behind her and used her stomach to slowly pull her body up. In a single wave of sharp pain, Bastila's stitches stretched too far, her head swam and throbbed, her back seized, and her backside bones dug into the ground. Clenching her teeth and letting out a pained groan of agony, she let her body fall back against the ground, tears of pain, frustration and anger sliding down her cheeks.
"No…" she said to herself. "No emotion exists, there is only the Force." The meditation calmed her, and her eyes slid shut. However, she was acutely aware of the fact that she had no connection with the Force at all. Whenever she went to access that reserve within her soul, she was blocked, and it confused and frightened her greatly; she was utterly defenseless. Well, not entirely. She did have boots on, and a decent kick, but if attacked by another Force adept, she was completely vulnerable.
Feeling drained of energy, she let her blue-grey eyes slide shut and her body ease into a limp state against the floor, leaving her troubles for whenever she woke up again…
--
Lork Malak was watching the Jedi again, studying her movements, laughing at her pain. His deeply amused and cruel yellow eyes watched the Jedi as she cried out, and commended her for trying to sit up. After today, however, he was through simply watching; it was time for the little Jedi girl to know that she had no other choice than to submit to him and his will. Malak's right fist clenched and his fingers itched to touch the Jedi girl's perfect skin.
"Bastila Shan," he thought to himself, "a fitting name, elegant, but you will fall. Soon enough, you will be on your knees before me, begging me for mercy and recognizing me as the Dark Lord, as your Lord!"
He liked the sound of that, and mused that from the moment they were going to meet, she would be forced to call him "my Lord;" it was perfect.
On his way out of the chamber, he crunched his fist against a button on the wall, sending up a pulsing red security wall around the prisoner's cell.
Day 3
Bastila awoke with a pounding headache, her muscles aching and throbbing in pain from falling asleep on the cold floor for yet another night. However, other than the headache, she felt far better than she did before; it was an almost euphoric feeling. Strangely, it was difficult to think, and she blinked sluggishly as she tried to clear the fog that clouded her mind. Lifting up a hand, she rubbed her eyes a little, brows furrowed into a tight 'v' as she tried valiantly to think clearly.
Most importantly, she tried to remember why she was here, how she came to be here and what was going on before. It wasn't like her to forget things this easily, and as she looked around, the only viable explanation was that she was a prisoner…
Suddenly, Bastila twitched fully awake, her heart pounding in her chest and her fingers clenching the floor beneath her. "Darth Malak…" she thought with horror. "I am the prisoner of Darth Malak!"
As if on some supernatural cue, a door hissed open and a pair of heavy, booted footsteps strode easily into the chamber. Bastila felt fear like nothing she had ever known grip her body and mind, adrenalin coursing through her system. She wasn't even this afraid when facing Darth Revan on his flagship, but she was armed then, and fully sober.
The footsteps stopped feet from her, and a looming presence seemed to stifle and thicken the air, making it difficult to breathe. Bastila slowly turned her face to look up, a silhouette of a distorted face given to her eyes.
"Rise, Bastila Shan," a gruff, mechanical voice ordered her. The sound was grating to her ears and she grimaced, slowly trying to push herself up. Her body ached and the stitches in her arm were pulling uncomfortabley, but the alternative of disobeying was surely much more horrifying.
Slowly, the Jedi pushed her upper body up and leaned against a wall, her breathing labored as her efforts took far more energy than she thought. Her frame trembled and shook, the muscles famished from lack of nutrients.
"I… I cannot rise farther," she said, her voice barely a whisper; her throat was so very parched.
The Dark Lord watched, his eyes narrowing in sadistic amusement as the beautiful girl struggled to sit up, her wonderful limbs shaking with exhaustion. Looking over her body, he furrowed his brows, musing that all of the injuries needed to be healed and the stitches taken out of her arm. Kolto would do fine job of repairing and restoring her perfection.
"Whether you can or cannot is of no concern to me," he said, his mechanical voice sounding like a grunt. "However, you will. Disobeying yields punishment."
Bastila felt fear grip her, but her temper flared as well. Quite honestly, she had no idea how she had advanced as far as she did with the Jedi because she had a rather horrid temper which always presented itself at the worst possible moments – such as now.
"I suppose I will be on the receiving end of your punishments often enough then, because there are certain things that cannot be done, and my standing in this state is one of them," she retorted, her voice returning slightly and her cultured accent enunciating her words.
Malak's body stiffened as he was not used to such blatant, foolish rebellion, and it was a miracle of the Force that he did not choke the Jedi then and there. However, his position of master needed to be established to the Jedi – now.
Bastila felt her body roughly hauled up with the Force and slammed into the wall, the sheer forcefulness of it sending a throb of pain into her head. Helpless and trapped, she clenched and unclenched her fists, hating feeling this way. Looking up directly into the Dark Lord's eyes with contempt, she stiffened, seeing cold, hard and empty yellow eyes before her – the eyes of a murderer.
"You will obey me, Jedi!" he growled, closing in on her face. "I don't care what it takes to break you. I have no moral boundaries, so you will bend to my will." Darth Malak warned her, his eyes boring directly into her grey-blue ones.
His large, dark and shrouded frame filled Bastila's vision, and he looked down on her from great height and great strength. Bastila felt the same fear grip her again as well as resolution; she promised herself that she would not fall to this man. She would not let herself betray the Jedi, her friends, or Revan… No, she could not betray him - would not betray him. And so she hardened herself for this battle in which she would fight valiantly. She would fight for Revan, and for the galaxy, and if those were not reasons enough, then she would fight for herself. Even if the outcome of her battle meant death, she was prepared – for it is better to be one with the Force than a fallen, broken version of herself.
Taking a deep breath, Bastila felt the conviction swell within her heart. "Darth Malak, you will not break me," she said calmly, looking the man directly in the eyes with the same firm conviction. "I will not bend to your will, and I will not obey your desires. I will not fall, even if that means I must die."
Darth Malak would have sneered if he had the mouth to do so, and his eyes drilled into hers with a prideful, angry disbelief. "We will see, Jedi," he spat. "Soon enough you will be begging me for death, and I will not be merciful. You will suffer until you break." Chuckling in a sick amusement, the Dark Lord reached out a hand and fingered a strand of her rich brunette hair that had escaped from its clasp. "Death is not an option – ever. Even when I have broken your mind and gotten what I needed from you, you have your uses. I will keep you as a symbol for the Jedi; of what was once theirs and is now mine." The Dark Lord's evil grin showed through in his eyes. "I will use you as a tool to break my former master, and you will follow my instruction because you will realize that my way is right – that I am your master."
The Dark Lord dropped Bastila, letting her body crumple into a heap on the floor. Turning sharply, he began to stride swiftly for the door. Without looking back, Malak walked through it and locked it behind him, his rage growing ever more steadily. A medical technician approached him, saluting professionally. "Sir," he began cautiously. "You ordered a kolto treatment for Bastila Shan?" he asked, looking at Malak with respectful, fearful deference.
"Yes," he replied roughly. "You will find that she is awake. Take her to med-bay and do what you need, and keep her there for now."
"Yes, Lord Malak," the tech replied with a short bow at the waist before moving to Bastila's cell.
The Dark Lord watched for a moment before leaving for his bridge, bent on locating Revan and his silly, stupid little friends. He laughed out loud at how far his Master had deposed, how weak he had become with his silly notions of love for the stubborn, preachy girl that was now in his possession. The Jedi amused him also with the fake identity they implanted in his mind, and he chuckled at how stupid his old Master looked with the lost expression on his face when Malak told him who he had been.
Funny that his old Master, the former Dark Lord of the Sith now found company with an old Republic Commander, a crazed Cathar woman, a teenaged twi-lek, and a Mandalorian. What a bunch of useless, misfit waste. The only valuable member was in his possession now, and he was not going to let her out of his grasp. Revan had lost; the girl was his now.
--
Bastila was in the middle of trying to right herself when she saw a Sith dressed in scrubs approach her; she glared at the man. The technician saw her glare and raised his hands in an effort of peace.
"I follow orders," he said. "If you would please come with me and I will lead you to med-bay."
"I would if I could move," she snapped back to the doctor who looked at her with a measure of sympathy.
"Would you like me to he– "
"No," Bastila replied quickly, starting to push her body up. She did not want the Sith man anywhere near her, doctor or not. Slowly, Bastila pushed herself up, using the wall as a balance. The muscles in her legs were shaking and threatening to give way, and her heart was pounding in her chest as she struggled to breathe. Finally, after many minutes of agonizing pain and effort, she stood against the wall, her head hung low as a dull throbbing ache began to pulse through her ears. Groaning, she took a deep breath, feeling a drunken cloud fog over her mind, and even though she blinked, little stars floated in her vision until she saw no more.
The technician caught Bastila as she collapsed and hauled her over his shoulder in a rescue form of carry. Furrowing his brows, he looked over at the girl's face, seeing how peaceful, innocent and untainted it was. Righting himself and scooting Bastila over on his back a little, he began to walk out of the cell and into a private sector of the Med-Bay.
Once in a large, heavily furnished operating room, the technician laid Bastila down on the bed and began to assemble all of the monitors, making sure they worked properly and that Bastila's biorhythmic readouts were all accurate. After everything was in working order, the technician chained Bastila's left wrist to the bed before pulling a sheet over her body and quickly striding out to inform the doctor of the Jedi's arrival.
On the Sith ship, even the medical staff functioned with a military hierarchy, the doctors being the high ranking commanders, accountable only to Darth Malak himself. The technician that had prepared Bastila bowed once in his presence.
"Sir, Lord Malak's Jedi prisoner is in operating room number nine with all monitors go," the technician said, head still bowed low.
The doctor turned slowly and looked down at the technician. "Good," he replied before dismissing the technician with a wave of his hand. Bastila's technician bowed again before turning on his heel and leaving, an uneasy feeling wrenching his gut. Something about the Jedi prisoner called to him and his compassion side. Seeing her perfect, tranquil and innocent face made him feel guilt over what this place and what these people would do to her and this purity she possessed.
Part of him remembered what it was like, so long ago when he had innocence like hers, except he studied, breathed and lived medicine unlike Bastila who devoted herself to the Jedi. The innocence had gotten him into a great amount of trouble and left him a broken man, susceptible to anything that brought vengeance and retribution – the Sith offered just that. So, he signed on staff as a medical technician, and now he was here, remembering better times.
Still, his mind wouldn't stop nagging him about the Jedi. He feared for what he knew they would do to her. The injuries Bastila had now were nothing compared to what they could do, and will do. Torturing captives was narrowed down into an art form involving doctors whose sole purpose was to keep the captive stable, not allowing them the release of death despite the fact that their parting would have naturally come far before.
Walking down the hall, he stopped in and checked on the still unconscious Jedi, giving her a short word of good fortune before walking out and trying not to think.
--
Revan was enraged as he saw Carth and Bastila forced into a stasis, and he turned to give Darth Malak a cold stare, his fingers flexing over the hilt of his crimson blade. "Let her go," Revan spat at Malak as they circled each other, lightsabers hissing and at the ready.
Darth Malak laughed. "Fool," he said with obvious amusement. "My old master, what makes you think that I will simply bend to your will? Your words are wasted on me," he replied calmly.
Revan had just watched his life torn to ruins. He was Darth Revan, and suddenly everything made sense. All of the anger, rage and darkness that he felt just below the surface now had a reason, a purpose. Revan remembered who he had been and why – all of the memories of his past flooding in clearly. The people he murdered in cold blood, standing on the bridge of his ship, orchestrating the war, and the way he occupied his free time – all of the memories were now available to him. A sense of nostalgia swept over him, but he ignored it for the anger towards the Jedi, and now towards his old apprentice – the bastard betrayed him.
"You betrayed me, Malak," Revan said, his anger calming to a cold, calculating version of rage.
"It was you who taught me so, master," Darth Malak replied sarcastically. "It was your time to fall, and by my hand."
"Your hand?" Revan laughed. "You were too much of a coward to face me in person. Instead you chose to launch an attack against my ship, knowing that I would have ripped you apart if you would have challenged me directly." The former Sith Lord easily slid back into his own, true self, the memories and words coming so easily.
Darth Malak stiffened. "I could have easily beaten you, but I took my window of opportunity. Unfortunately you lived."
The former Sith Lord laughed, the sound chilling to even his own ears. "Easily beaten me…" he spat darkly. "You have no honor, Malak, or should I say Alec?" he said in a growl, his , naturally golden eyes flashing to the Sith Lord in front of him with malice. All the hatred from knowledge of knowing that this… prick was to fault for living a false life all this time came at him full force, washing out his vision in a haze of red.
Darth Malak tensed, and growled, looking at his former master with contempt. "Ingenuity is what matters master; you were too soft - you and your concept of 'honor'," he said with a harsh laugh. "Now, you get a chance, old Master. See if you can beat me now!"
Revan tensed, looking at Bastila and giving her a pained, mistrusting look. "You lied to me," he said in a tone that held more disappointment and pain than one man could hold in. Finally, Revan turned to Malak, lightsaber in hand.
Everything happened within a split second. Revan felt the force of an oncoming speeder hit his chest, launching is body through and open doorway. His golden eyes were open and watched with horror and Carth came sailing through the door as well. Time seemed to slow down, and Revan willed his sluggish limbs to move faster as the door began to hiss shut. The last image burned itself in his memory of Bastila crossing blades with Darth Malak.
"Go, now!" she had yelled, apology in her blue-grey eyes – those beautiful blue-grey eyes.
The door was covered in blood from Revan's fists as he desperately tried to get through the doors. His lightsaber was broken, and he was yelling, screaming, though the only thing he could think about or even care to notice was the memory of Bastila's blue-grey eyes filled with such apology. Somewhere in his mind that was still sane, he could feel Carth trying to haul him away, but fuck him! He was going to save Bastila; he had to; he couldn't survive without her.
--
Bastila glared at Darth Malak, her fighting ability significantly less than her opponent's. Malak had been another Jedi hero that had gone to the side of the Republic, and Revan was the only man who had ever been able to win in a one on one match. Every hit that he landed against Bastila was executed with sheer force and power, using his height, strength and size against her almost petite form.
"He left you," Darth Malak growled at her with a grin. "You are all alone now, princess, so very alone."
Bastila could feel it, how alone she was. The only sounds were the hisses and crashes from their lightsabers pounding against each other. "He didn't leave me," she argued back, concentrating very hard, though quickly making mistakes from exhaustion.
"He isn't here, is he?" he asked, probing her for weaknesses. Darth Malak was simply humoring her with this duel; he could take her where she stood, and she would be helpless against him.
"I told him to go," she said.
"Actually, I threw him out," Darth Malak corrected.
"Yes, and closed the door, I saw that," she said, swallowing the fear that rose in her throat, trying so hard to focus. "If you had any honor at all, he would still be here, beating you," she said harshly, her accent sharp.
Darth Malak laughed and delivered a crushing blow to Bastila's lightsaber, cracking the staff in half. The energy of her two previously fused blades flickered and Bastila looked on in horror as it finally flickered out with a sharp snap. She was completely weaponless. Quickly, she backed up and away from Darth Malak, feeling vulnerable, open and frightened, so scared. "Pretty little Jedi," he taunted her, "I told you this was about ingenuity, not fairness or honor. There is nothing fair in this world," he growled, advancing on her swiftly.
Bastila backed up quickly, horrified but too proud to beg. "Leave me alone," she commanded, though her resolve was weak.
"That is the last thing that I am going to do with you," he growled before raising his right hand, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. Had the man had a jaw, he would have been grinning from ear to ear in a sadistic way. Finally, Bastila Shan was in his clutches, and she was stunning to look at.
A burst of Force lightning ignited from Malak's hand, hitting Bastila square in the chest. The Jedi cried out in sudden pain, and she threw her head back, every single nerve burning and pulsing with agony. Once released from the pain, she fell to her knees, groaning with teeth clenched in fury.
She hissed in a breath and dragged herself up off the floor, lifting her icy, silvery eyes to meet Malak's yellow ones. "Brute force will not break me, Malak," she said coolly, drawing in the Force around her in a protective shield.
"It will, child," he replied simply, flinging attacks through the Force at her that Bastila blocked. When the torrent stopped, Bastila looked up at Malak again, her body quickly growing more exhausted by the moment.
Backing away as Lord Malak advanced on her, Bastila tried to think of anything that she could do; she quickly realized that she was helpless; this was the end.
She stopped and held her ground, holding her chin high and rolling her shoulders back proudly. "I will not give you the satisfaction of making me beg for my life, Malak," she hissed. "Kill me now and be done with it!"
A wicked laughed echoed throughout the chamber. "Killing you was never my intention, dear Bastila," he said in a chuckle, striding up close to her, his crimson blade hissing at his side. "You will be begging, but instead of for your life, you will be pleading to me for death," he told her in his deep, mechanical voice. He reached out a gloved had and grasped her jaw in a firm grip, easily shutting down his weapon and clipping it to his side; his free hand wrapped around her belt, keeping her near him. "You have your uses, Bastila, and they are many…" he trailed, his yellow eyes roving over her once.
Bastila felt a chill crawl up her spine at her horrible miscalculation. She leaned back against her belt as he held her there, feeling her blood cool in her veins as his yellow eyes obviously looked at her form. She clenched a fist and took a deep breath, her silvery eyes staring into his with pride and disgust. "You will not have me, Darth Malak," she growled coolly, swiftly colliding her fist with his face.
The Dark Lord was furious, and he reeled sideways only to catch himself and ignite his weapon. "You will pay ten-fold for that foolish act, Bastila Shan!" he growled loudly, his yellow eyes blazing in rage.
Within a few moments, Bastila's body was on the ground, unconscious and incapacitated as the furious Dark Lord stood over her, shoulders moving with deep, rapid breaths. Her blood pooled beneath his boots in a crimson red trail.
--
Bastila awoke to a slow, rhythmic beeping noise and she wrinkled her forehead a little groggily. With a confused expression, she opened her eyes and looked down at the different wires coming off of her arms and she looked around, immediately recognizing a medical care room.
The realization hit her again and her heart filled with dread, the once rhythmic beeping now faster and softer; she tried to get up but found that, to her dismay, her wrist was chained to the metal siding of the bed. She looked around frantically, trying to find a way out before hearing a cough and sharply, quickly looking up, eyes narrowing. "Touch me and I swear by the Force I will hurt you…" she snarled threateningly.
The man made a familiar gesture, raising his hands in the air; she furrowed her brows, knowing that this man must have brought her here from her cell. "Alright, but if I can't touch you then you will have old, gross kolto wraps…" he trailed, feeling his heart stop when her stunning grey eyes snapped to his own in a threatening way; she was like a caged animal, beautiful in distress and vulnerability.
Bastila listened and looked down at her arm. "Why are you healing me?" she asked.
The technician took that as her permission to let him switch out the wraps. "Because that is what Lord Malak ordered," he replied simply as he replaced her bandages, checking on the little white scar that ran from her bicep to her forearm.
"Why are you healing a scar?" she asked, confused now. Her body was healed, why were they worried about a scar?
"Lord Malak demands perfection; he wants you restored to your original appearance," the technician answered, trying not to find her little gestures and quirks endearing. Still, after treating this woman for a day now, he found it hard not to notice and appreciate her personality.
"W – " she began but was cut off.
The technician gave her a look. "You ask a lot of questions," he said observantly.
Bastila gave him a sour expression and shut up quickly, not saying another word; she turned her head and looked away. The technician took advantage of her looking away and held her jaw steady, making sure that there was no sign of a scar on her forehead.
He sighed and almost smiled to himself at her display, seeing that her skin was perfectly healed on her head. All that they were waiting on was her arm, and part of him begged that she would never heal, that she would never have to go back. The horrors that awaited her…
The man grimaced, the memories of screams echoing in his mind; there was no life in that room, no hope, nothing good. Only darkness and evil resided in that place, with the Dark Lord orchestrating the torture.
And so ends the first chapter. Let me know what you think, and please let me know of any grammatical or awkward phrases. Thank you, readers for your time.
