Hello again,

Thanks for reading! As I promised, I'm actively trying to close up their story so here's the next installment. Please be warned that this chapter contains some violent and disturbing images (even just suggested at). Aside from this, enjoy!

It had been three months in the Imperial labs when she was first introduced to him. That day, she had undergone a freezing test, where technicians submerged her in ice-cold water for several hours. She would have died if it weren't for the chemicals they had pumped into her to keep her blood from freezing and protecting her vitals from the frigid temperature. Deeming the experiment a success, the techs pulled her out, after which she lay on an examining table naked and semi-conscious. It was hard to make out what the techs were saying, but she did catch snippets of their conversation:

"Subject is alive. Core temperature: normal. Outer temperature is below freezing but the body is in perfect condition. She is one of the few to survive this."

A nasal voice added, "Her body has accepted the chlorozan. Not only can she withstand extreme cold, her muscles are responding to it. She has passed almost every physical test we have given her."

There was a pause. The other one spoke. "But not the mind-control."

"No. There are far too many signs of her will fighting it off. Lord Vader is aware of her condition. He has sent for our most efficient agent to change her cerebral pathways – by force.

At that moment, a hushed murmur swept the room. The doors of the lab opened, then silence. The techs had all disappeared.

Even before she knew all this had happened, she heard heavy footsteps coming toward her, the same that would announce his terrible presence in the months to come. Greta, unable to gather her wits about her, shivered on the table in a rigid mass. The next thing she knew, she was being pulled up by her hair (she hardly even felt it as her hair ripped out in clumps) – and looking blurredly at a familiar T-shaped visor. Even in her paralyzed state, she let out a discernible gasp as she recognized him.

But before she could muster the energy to say anything, he savagely turned her around and pushed her face-down on the table. The cold steel greeted her face with blinding force. She hardly knew what was happening until he had her bent over the table as he pressed up against her from behind. Panicking, she tried to kick him away, but she had no control. She was helpless, and completely at his mercy as she heard him undoing his codpiece, and felt his gloved hands slide between her thighs.

"Your training begins."

This was the first time, among many, that she would learn to truly hate this Boba Fett.

* * *

Greta tried not to let her mind wander to these thoughts, but something within her was determined not to believe that whoever was behind this mask was not really Boba Fett, despite his claims. It seemed too convenient that in their failed attempts to control her mind, Boba Fett should show up, only to brutally violate her. And although she could not be sure of who he really was after his betrayal, her instincts told her that the Imperials were using his image to drive her over the edge.

It almost worked. The first few months after he reintroduced himself into her life, she almost let him kill her. She wanted to die so badly. But the man disguised as Boba Fett was so unlike the man she knew for seven years. The last and only time Boba Fett was cruel to her, he seemed conflicted; more angry with himself than with her, and in retrospect, never nearly this brutal. This Boba Fett revelled in violence; it gave him such perverted pleasure to draw her blood.

Secretly, all of the Imperials' experiments had backfired. Though they awaited Greta's killing instinct to emerge, they were unaware that she was planning an escape. If she had no control over the body-enhancing procedures and training they subjected her to, she had to use these as her only weapons, and fight hard to keep her mind intact. For now, she had to keep acting like she believed this imposter's ruse until the right time. She hadn't decided if she would kill him. She didn't like this idea, even if he deserved it a thousand times over; but she didn't want to become like them – even if it meant denying herself of vengeance.

At present, she was hooked up to the electroshock unit, with "Boba Fett" telling her more of his lies. But now that the chlorozan compound had successfully fused itself into her cell structure, the electricity didn't seem to hurt her as much anymore; it actually seemed to stimulate her muscles.

Of course, the shock therapy still affected her mind and she tried her best to mimic the same pain response she once exhibited; now she struggled to stay awake during the numbing electric hum coursing between her ears. It was weird how the electroshock now induced her into a dreamlike state, possibly the chlorozan protecting her brain from overloading. Today, her dreams brought her back to a not-so-long ago memory, of the time she was recovering from cave blindness:

. . . Greta was sitting upright in a bed with blindfolds on, waiting for her eyes to heal after receiving the last of the solar treatments on Boba Fett's ship. She had never spent time in his sickbay, nor so long on his ship. Despite his reputation, Greta felt relief at being on here, away from the commotion of the palace, its sickness and sounds of death. It was quiet here and for the first time in years, she slept undisturbed.

Suddenly, she felt the warmth of a hand on her face until she realized it was real. She awoke slowly, understanding more clearly that someone was there. The hands were ungloved.

Her throat was dry when she said his name. The hands paused. Then the familiar, filtered voice. "Yes."

He was now lifting the blindfold off her eyes and wiping the dried tears from her lashes. His hands were on her face again, gently prying her eyelids open. It would take a few more days for the treatment to take effect, but for now, she was still blind. She could only feel his bare hands touching her eyes and the skin around them, checking to see her progress.

"I want to thank you," she began, as he continued to examine, "for helping me."

"You don't need to thank me," he replied.

"Well . . . I want to," she said, revealing a sweet smile. "So, thank you – for what it's worth."

There was a pause as he thought over this. In his mind, he reasoned that he was ensuring the maintenance of his ship, and therefore, the success of his career. He didn't want to admit – even to himself – that he didn't' want her thrown to the rancor because he was emotionally involved. But her thanks had secretly made him proud, not for his own ability to help her, but because he had made her smile. It occurred to him then how much he liked that smile, especially when it was directed at him.

"You're . . . welcome," he said slowly, quietly. His hand, which had rested on her face during these thoughts, absent-mindedly reached across her check, cupping her face more fully into his palm. The move surprised Greta as she felt the warmth of his hand radiating over her face and his fingers lightly resting behind her ear.

Had her usual cautiousness not been inhibited by the painkillers in her system, she would not have reached up to touch his hand, as intimate as this gesture was. In turn, Fett would have instantly removed it from her touch – had he not found himself wanting this as much as she.

Greta slowly explored the back of his hand, hardly believing she was touching his skin – the first evidence of his humanity she had ever experienced. As her thumb traced over his skin, his hand flinched slightly, but stayed. Fett was somewhat unprepared for his response to her touch. Little did she know, the softness of her hand stroking his own had awakened a deep yearning in his body. Aware of this, he began to withdraw his hand from beneath hers. Surprisingly, Greta held on.

"Stay with me," she said impulsively, sucking in a breath, surprised at her own boldness.

There was a pause. Greta was afraid she had pushed too far. Were those goosebumps she felt on the back of his hand? She had challenged a boundary that had been safely maintained between them. Life had gone on the same for the last seven years, during which they requested only practical advice from each other and initiated indirect conversations to see how the other was doing. Now, she had vocalized an emotional desire of wanting – him.

In truth, Fett felt conflicted about his own desires. On one hand, he wanted to keep things simple, no strings attached, no liabilities. On the other hand, he wanted her, too.

"I have work to do," he answered brusquely. His hand slipped quickly out of hers, and she heard the rustling sound of cloth. He was putting his gloves back on, then he left the room.

* * *

The ending of that memory bade Greta wake from the electroshock, feeling the heavy-hearted rejection she felt when he withdrew his hand from her. The lingering feelings were only confused by the long months of abuse she suffered under a man claiming to be him. Her memories of the real Boba Fett before his betrayal vastly contrasted with the man who had betrayed her, and this man who enjoyed hurting her. She was indeed very confused, unsure of what to do with the feelings attached to the past.

Awaking, her eyes began to focus on her tormentor. The one who called himself Boba Fett was still talking. He talked more than the real Boba Fett ever did. And, gods, did she want him to shut up.

The electricity shut off, and this Boba Fett stalked over to her, pulling her head back by her now short-cropped hair. "Falling asleep, are we? You want more juice? I'll give it to you."

He began unbuttoning his pants. Greta looked wearily at him, stalling with her well-practiced blank stare. What she was really thinking, was how she was going to make him regret ever laying his hands on her. Parts of her conscience told her not to do it; that she would only fulfill what they wanted of her. Another part cried out for vengeance, for the evil that had been done to her. And things were different today. She could feel the chlorozan reacting with the electricity. Her senses were sharper somehow; her muscles desperate to react. Everything in her body told her she could not stand this anymore. She made a decision.

"C'mere, big boy," she slurred.

Ascii cocked his head. "So you want this now?" He laughed within the helmet, positioning in front of her. "I'll give it to you."

And without even seeing her move, Greta broke the confines of the chair, and kneed her assailant with wicked force in the crotch. He might have puked his balls out, except he didn't. He was on the floor, grabbing between his legs and swearing profusely. Standing over him with eyes clear and every muscle fibre twitching, she pinned him down with her foot to his chest and grabbed his vibroblade. "Yeah, I want it. I want to see you eat it."

Carving up a sausage and feeding it to its owner was never more fun than this.