Here is the next installment of "What Happened After Rishi" – I really have to come up with more exciting titles – and I hope you enjoy it. Come back next Friday when Hevy and Asajj actually meet.
Hevy simply waved, he's a bit distracted because he is finally going to meet a girl – like, face to face. Hey, so what she's a CIS commander, dark acolyte of the Force and all-round bad person. He thanks TheRedFredDeadDude for noticing that Rex lost the argument.
Critics warmly welcome.
Chapter 4
Asajj Ventress breathed in deeply, paused, then slowly exhaled – releasing her rage and anger with the breath. She had failed. Again. Unlike Grievous she did not blame others, did not lash out. This had been her own fault. She had not been strong enough to prevail against the two Jedi.
Again her master, Count Dooku would give her that sorrowful look, as though it was only this single failure which stood in her way as his padawan. It was an act, of course. Ventress knew that, knew that he balanced her with Grievous, that he would give nothing without his own master's approbation and approval.
The candle in front of her flickered at her anger. Her attention focused on the candle seeing its destructive beauty, the fire that burned within all fire and she calmed. The flame lowered, relax. A small droplet of wax teetered on the edge then slide down the side to begin a small pool of wax.
This clone in her ship would be a welcome respite from the Count's sorrowful anger or Grievous' uncontrolled obsession of wanton destruction. She acknowledged that fact to herself. It was uncomfortable to know she was sometimes lonely but the truth had a certain clean clarity; a bright edge that cut away the dross of confusion and self-delusion.
She breathed, reached out her focus to the clone even now being released from the bacta tank. Cold exhaustion enveloped her to her very core, the numbness of a body slowly shutting down for death. She touched him. There was some minor kidney damage, easily correctable – so she did so. No other damage. No permanent damage. He wouldn't be hungry - those urges had passed weeks ago. Lightly she stroked his circulation system toward these centers. An appetite would make it easier for him to accept food, easier for his body to cope with something it had almost forgotten, less wary of her. Gently she urged sluggish blood in its pathways of his circulation. She caught debilitating cramps forming in his extremities and pushed blood there also, soothing them away, warming them, balancing potassium and sodium within his cells until she was satisfied that she had done what she could to assist in his re-awakening.
Not to be kind, she told herself, merely expedient.
She exhaled, checked her own body and stretched her arms up then out – feeling the Force, feeling her heart beat – bringing her arms down to her lap. She returned her attention to the clone. He'd been burned. The back of his entire body had blistered red and then blackened; from just under the back rim of his helmet to his toes, but burnt skin was still skin and the bacta tank had taken care of that. She probed deeper sensing the body memory of blaster wounds in shoulder, back and leg. Minor, compare to the burn. Only his helmet had saved his head, his face. Falling forward had saved his lungs and that, in extension, had saved his life.
Gently now, gently she touched on his memory. Immediately his mind shielded itself, not as a Force sensitive but as any human mind would instinctively close at a foreign touch. But before it closed, she caught a glimpse – caught enough.
Images of a failed detonator, of plunk droids, of commando droids, of an outpost interior. Voices. "You'll call me Captain or sir." "Officers coming for inspection". Sounds – the explosion and accompanying feel of blood in his ears, blue light flaring into red then giving way to blackness as his helmet compensated or the macula of his retinas burned, blistering, cracking to blindness. Then silence broken by isolated sobs. Heat giving way to coolness then to cold. A small weak moan. Then nothing.
It had been easy to piece together what had happened. Between the droids gathering useable parts on the Rishi moon and Grievous' anger at the destruction of the outpost, a child would have known what happened. The Republic fleet had moved to face Grievous near Rishi and she had to attacked Kamino swiftly as a diversionary tactic to escape. Quickly the fleet moved toward Kamino to protect it. So no one was at Rishi when she arrived there hours after the explosion. It was a good plan and she knew they would put it into effect again.
She slowly wove the Force away from him into herself.
Why keep him? She smiled. Because of the dream that wasn't a dream.
The threads of the Force made up the fabric of this dream and she had meditated often since she had it. Sometimes the images became sharper, clearer as she tried to trace the individualities – of an event or a person; sometimes she received only an impression or a whisper in her mind as she probed further. The first time she had the dream she had woken from sleep with the sound of blasters still reverberating in her mind. The predominately white armor of the clones slashed with battalion colors still flashed before her eyes. The bitter taste of dirt, dust and mud from a hundred different planets coated the roof of her mouth. Her fingers shook from perceptions from the Force and from her own excitement. The GAR was killing the Jedi.
She had meditated long afterward. The Force granted few visions of the future but this had been one. She knew it. She frowned. When Ky had trained her the Force had seemed clearer – purer like a mountain river; now it was like a murky, muddy pond.
Asajj touched the clone. He was sitting as the droids dressed him. Her mind turned to other matters.
The was another one – Count Dooku's master. Hidden from her view, undoubtedly from the Jedi Council as well. She had seen his hologram face cloaked, had felt his touch occasionally when his attention was on her. The first time he had looked at her, she had hoped it would be to make her his padawan. His laughter at her insolence desire still made her burn when she thought of it. He was power and she could and did feel his dissatisfaction with Count Dooku. So she waited.
She wasn't sure if he – the touch strongly suggested both male and human – had instigated the dream or was even aware of it. She didn't try to hide it but tucked it in her mind of barely-remembered things. Unimportant things. She was playing dangerous games.
Her mind returned to the clone. He was young, of course, knowledgeable in many things, experienced in few. He was proud of his strength. He worked hard to develop muscle to his genetic potential – more so than most clones – he was dedicated to lifting the weights, practicing with the heavier weapons in the armory, pursuing punishing games. He was bodyproud as were all the clones – but more so than most.
Such an arrogant, brash, young clone.
Softly she extinguished the candle and rose to her feet. She draped a long robe around herself. It was night on Rattatak and, by extension, her ship.
She had a guest to entertain. It would be rude of her to make him wait.