Grievous Light
Darth Plagueis was dead.
But not for long.
General Grievous liked to keep his promises.
Numerous bones collected from Kalee's extinct surface had been piled high, giving shape to macabre fortifications within a soft limestone cavern.
The ivory of teeth and ribs of the Kaleeshi, a forgotten dead-people, peppered the rocks like glittering ice.
It had been a home, once.
A tiny candlelight flickered with every breath, illuminating its precarious position between Grievous's blood-soaked talons. His work of sacrifice wasn't the least interrupted when the candle died; its wick drowned by sweet purple fat. Grievous didn't need light to see. The candle had only been lit for the sake of tradition, and for the calming, herbal scent.
Grievous's amber eyes floated and bobbed, wrapped comfortably against the cavern's ocean of nothing. The clinks and thirsty bites of kaleesh-knives echoed far in the still-hollow.
Durasteel claws had carved groove after groove of circles within circles upon the surface of the sacred cave flooring, made crisp and cold by old blood.
It was like the crunch of snow as Grievous walked; the breaking of small bones to powder, and the sprinkling of chalk, sourced from cavern walls; when Grievous passively dragged his claws against the buttery-moist surface.
The ritual space had been completed. All Grievous needed now was the final ingredient.
It needed to be fetched.
Grievous leaped upward, twisting and landing against the cavern's ceiling-surface–grabbing hold of two curved stalactites. He found purchase upside-down–with claws dug so deep it was as if gravity did not exist—and a path easily reveled itself by the scarring of removed stalactites, a path walked by the numerous dead-kasleehi before.
Grievous closed his eyes, his steps moved as if taken into a hypnotic dance. The bountiful tunnels were endless; akin to the innards of a great space worm fitted with several digestions.
Daylight greeted with pain when he emerged—stinging his eyes despite rapid, moist blinks. Grievous growled, shielding his face against a gut-stained cape. His pupils reduced to closed slits and his vision grew mercifully blurry. He had been within that cave for days.
And he was just in time.
A muun officer corps ship descended from the atmosphere above him, landing only a few meters away. The ship was small and inconspicuous, much like its occupant.
San Hill emerged from the cockpit, the Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan. The muun approached with a twitchy, paranoid gait that was unbecoming of someone of his prestigious status. San held a stare to the sky, as if he'd been followed. Grievous frowned; such behavior did little to soothe his own paranoia.
"General, there you are! I was afraid I'd be stuck looking for you for hours."
Though the muun stood over six feet tall, Grievous dwarfed him—the glare the General was pinning him down with made San feel very small indeed. Grievous was akin to a horrifying gore-covered buzzard, with a neck bobbing back and forth to show displeasure–that its meal had the gall to stay alive.
Such a homicidal caricature San could only see. The General looked like a demon that had crawled up from the planet's very center, and considering the state of his tattered cape, perhaps he'd had.
He didn't dare ask.
"Thank. You. For not being late, Chairman Hill," Grievous croaked out; his mind still elsewhere—the ritual's paces were burning a groove into his skull, wanting to taste reality—as if he risked to forget details, or to lose his nerve if he did not concentrate a single moment more.
But such delicate matters were not quick, despite Grievous's own intuition begging him to hurry.
"He sounds surprisingly reasonable," thought San, the thick of sarcasm being the one thing holding back a deluge of fear from bleeding onto his skin.
Usually weak creatures such as San Hill were beneath Grievous's attention and his sight was fixed off into the empty distance, not meeting the muun's eyes even when he bravely extended a hand in customary greeting.
With a sigh, Grievous closed his eyes and shook the hand in return.
After all, San Hill had done him a great service. It was fortunate the muun remained loyal to Darth Plagueis, even after his death.
It had been considerable risk to involve anyone besides himself in regards to Plagueis's affairs'. Politicians like San Hill were practically bred to lie and backstab…just like the Sith actually.
Grievous considered; perhaps both being scum forged loyalty?
Why did a cowardous-snake like San agree? What was there for San to gain by bringing Plagueis back? Both where muun and aptly served the Banking Clan, but was that enough?
It was concerning not to know; Grievous didn't trust San Hill to remain on his side. He couldn't ask the Chairman the reason, least the weak little creature reconsidered its loyalties; especially, with how San was in the perfect position for blackmail and extortion...if he was foolish enough to try.
Of course, Grievous plotted to kill the sad little muun if any squealing was to go on...but the consequences...was it worth the murder?
How would he face the consequences? Perhaps it was consequence of being shrouded in darkness for days on end, because the remnants of his spine tingled with dread.
Not well, he mused, would he survive expulsion from the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Everyone in the Galaxy would be hunting him and just all over little San Hill's corrupt, severed head; the Banking Clan did not forgive. Grievous huffed, sizing up the muun frozen before him.
San's sickly complexion was coated with blue-tinted sweat. The white skin of his person showed blotchy hues of purples and pinks, a classic signal of distress within his species. His beady yellow eyes sunk deep within his delicate, paper-skull.
Was it just fear? Did San serve out of fear? Fear did *not* buy loyalties.
Grievous flexed his claws, calculating the pressure needed to cleave San's spindly goose-neck from the yoke of his spine. He felt the hushed, breathy whispers of paranoia itch against his neck.
The light grew thicker, blinding as he stepped closer, but his hands didn't move; San Hill was *still* the Banking Clan Chairman. Besides, San Hill had only expressed interest in Darth Plagueis himself, ex-magister of the Banking Clan. Darth Plagueis would make the final decision.
Grievous grumbled, eyes twitching as his bloodlust was corralled and beaten into submission. Kalee's sun was hot and his steel-body was smoldering.
To San's credit, he didn't hesitate to grasp Grievous's burning, blood-crusted claws, leading him towards the ship. It was considered a polite-muun gesture.
The muun's stance and gaze were steely and professional. It was just another day on the job—for him. San's sullied hand was stoically stuffed into a handkerchief, a movement so fluid and fast; San must've had years of practice.
"Now I have the peculiarities you've requested." San gestured the General forward. "If you would please help me unload. It would take some time to do by myself."
The ship's cargo bay had been stuffed to the brim. San grabbed a large picnic basket he had to carry with both hands. The basket was equally hideous and ridiculous: it had been woven in intricate metals and stamped with tacky muun runes, which Grievous translated to mean for "good luck." As he watched San hobble off under the weight, he concluded that the pathetic creature needed all the luck it could get.
Grievous grunted in amusement when he grabbed two metal-boxed cages, with fluid ease in comparison. Grievous followed the unsteady, limp-wristed San. Impatient talons itched to run the slow muun over. The cages appeared to agree, as they rattled fiercely when scenting the muun. He couldn't blame them.
San smelled like putrid bird-droppings, his moist skin doomed underneath the raging Kalee sun. Grievous could smell that the muun-species produced a disgusting, peculiar musk and San had tried to cover his underneath numerous oils and pressings, which served to make an even more vile concoction. Perhaps the caged creatures would *not* *find him appetizing* and Grievous's disappointment became palatable.
"What a shame," Grievous thought. He would've loved to see a show.
Eventually, desert sand and gravel gave way to uncanny green grass: a tiny oasis that could scarcely hold them both within a length of pasture.
"This is a nice spot you've found, General."
"Of course, it is. I planted it myself." He gestured to a wavering palm tree, which sunk underneath its own weight.
"Impressive work, General."
The palm leaves curled beneath their own shade, hiding from the killing sun. Not his finest work, Grievous would admit—but something was better than *the* *nothing* which plagued Kalee.
Kalee would never recover to become the tropical paradise it once was. The planet was dead, a hellish desert of bones and sand, save for the few patches of life Grievous bothered to oversee.
Grievous put down the cages, the metal and himself scalding. He immediately nuzzled up to the base of a tree, sighing wistfully within its precarious shade.
If San found the display odd, he wisely said nothing. He mirrored the actions, sighing as he settled besides Grievous—the shade more valuable than beskar.
Both said nothing. Both closed their eyes and enjoyed the crisp nature air, a rare peace—considering their demanding and blood-thirsty professions.
The flickering comradery, as they cowered underneath the shade, prompted Grievous to fix San with a single suspicious eye. San was untrustworthy and meek, but at least had the sense to not bother him with small talk.
San occupied himself with his basket. The creatures rattled madly in their cages.
"So San, what have you brought me?" Grievous leaned forward from a lotus-sitting position, but his closed eyes and sleepy figure betrayed his lack of interest. "I'm not sure Plagueis would be happy with either creature." He chuckled—San started to tremble, his sweat toppling over like rain.
But the muun bit his lip, smiles on the corners of his pale cheeks. "I have to respectfully disagree General. Magister Damask had personally expressed interest in procuring these creatures during his tenure."
Oh, but that didn't guarantee Damask actually liked them...he probably wanted to eat them, Grievous concluded.
Speaking of eating...San's picnic basket was full of food, including a freshly baked bread which smelled the nicest out of everything.
San Hill spared no expense in expressing his rich financial resources. An excessive amount of silverware was deposited on a muun-stitched blanket, woven from metal fibers, displaying runes Grievous did not recognize.
There was an awkward moment where San seemed to consider not setting out a plate for Grievous. The General didn't eat after all.
But manners and self-preservation won out. San even set out a plate for Plagueis, who wasn't even around. It helped ease the awkwardness.
Grievous played with an engraved fork. It didn't bend easily under his weight. It was made from an expensive metal he did not recognize.
San set the food into a nice display—various fruits and spreads, designated to be paired with the bread.
"No meat?" Grievous sneered. A kaleesh that ate fruit would die of both poisoning and shame.
San braced his terror into a professional veneer. "Apologizes General." His needle-thick teeth clenching to hide palatable fear. "It is a status-symbol of wealth and luxury among muun to provide fruit and foliage-growths to dinners. Muun-origins took place on a desolate ice planet, and thus my family, the Hills, consumed flesh enough for generations," he paused to cement a point,"I'm inclined to break such an *ancient* dietary cycle."
Grievous rolled his eyes at the dramatic explanation. Meek San was suited to theatrics, but Grievous was a dangerous guest to tempt for amusement.
"I know, shut up." Grievous reached into a cloak pocket, and San froze. "It's why I brought this."
San expected a macabre contribution: a severed head, or a lightsaber to the neck...
But the General gently placed down a ribboned, confectionary-glass—a ominous jar of moonglow jam.
San Hill was startled as he read the glowing-blue label, his hands shaking from even touching it. He wasn't expecting to receive one of the rarest products the Galaxy could deliver from a blood-soaked pocket.
"Moonglow!? Moonglow jam?!" San appeared on the verge of a fit, the veins on his head seizing with confusion. Why on earth did General Grievous, a death-crazed cybernetic-lunatic that didn't even eat, have moonglow? To make jam out of moonglow was ludicrous! Just one fruit cost a thousand credits, and that is if one even got on the exclusive-list to get permission to buy a single one. Even San, as the Banking Clan Chairman, was left pining at the bottom of the list.
"I stole it from Count Dooku's Serenno pantry." Grievous glibbed, in conspiratorial pride, "Apparently the Count has a lifetime supply of these things."
San had to crack a smile at that. It certainly explained much. Only Count Dooku would have the political clout to hoard moonglow from the rest of the Galaxy.
"B-but how did you get away with it?" Already San was trying to imagine the General's impossible pilfering. Grievous wasn't known to be inconspicuous—and when pitted against the surveillance-infested Castle Serenno, seemed utterly ridiculous.
"I didn't," Grievous confessed. "As I took the jam from its spot, I directly stared down a camera." Grievous paused to stroke his nonexistent chin, chuckling to himself. "I can only imagine Dooku's befuddlement, as I chose to steal a jar of jam I couldn't even eat, when several valuable weapons and artifacts sat on the wall behind me."
San Hill couldn't help himself. He closed his eyes, clutched his belly, and allowed himself to indulge in a childish guffaw. The professional demeanor he had built up crumbled into the wind.
"Oh oh excellent work, General!" San quirked a naked brow, "Might I ask what the punishment was?"
Grievous chuckled, tapping his chest for emphasis, "Apparently *nothing* at the moment. Either the Count doesn't thoroughly check his surveillance, or he's waiting for the perfect time to strike." Very Sith-like, he thought.
San shrugged. "Well, one can hope the Count has a sense of humor. Perhaps he speculates you took it for the representing credits?"
Grievous hummed, a noncommittal agreement; though the day he might first see the Count laughing, might be the day he died.
"Indulge me will you." Grievous clasped his hands. "Make me a sandwich."
San grew tongue-tied.
He wasn't suicidal enough to say no; in fact, he felt embarrassed he brought so much food, when only he could eat.
"W-with moonglow, sir?"
Grievous nodded sternly; the last of his good-patience was steadily evaporating along the corners of his tired, pin-pupiled eyes.
"Quickly too, the day has been long."
Right. Of course. Moonglow.
It was such a shame to waste a rare, limited commodity. San secretly hoped he would've been able to keep the jar entirely for himself.
Grievous settled on a slice of bread, drenched in moonglow.
"Is that all you'd like?" San gestured to numerous blue-milk cheeses and fruits. He was determined to humor Grievous, especially since the General could kill him with but a punch.
He set aside a sampler platter as reassurance.
When San looked to see how the General was enjoying his moonglow...
It was gone. All of it.
San discreetly scanned the surrounding sands for bits of jelly. Perhaps the General had thrown it up a tree...
"Another."
San was bewildered as he was bitter. He hadn't even tasted the rare sweet moonglow yet, and the madman decided he'd wanted to play with it.
Grievous received another moonglow, bread less drenched; San couldn't help otherwise.
San then began to prepare his own food. Might as well, he figured. It might be his last meal if Grievous decided to shred his head from his neck, despite their civil dealings.
Out of the corner of San's eye...something smoldered...
It smelled like toast.
San looked.
It was toast.
He expected Grievous to be playing with a lighter or match...but no.
Grievous's fingertips where on fire. The moonglow was toasting against his palm, eerily silent with hardly a sizzle, smoke curling away with hardly a smell.
San continued to quietly prepare his food. He ate a bitter-sweet marbled grape and chewed slowly, afraid to choke.
He couldn't look away. The toast began to levitate in place, pulsating within a curdled golden aura. Grievous squinted his eyes as if smiling…concentrating…tasting…
The toast melted, dripping onto grass with the intensity of plasma. There was no hint of charred texture, but there had been a audible *crunch* before it had fallen. The toast was now a pudding that was eating into the ground.
"Delicious." Grievous laughed, a strangled snuffling pressure, like steam trapped inside a glass.
San began to claw at the dirt, digging into the precious few strands of grass for stability.
His chest heaved intensely, as if his lungs had been collapsed by rocks. His body felt like it had been dunked in ice and his white skin was glazed with surprise.
Was he dying? It was less bloody than anticipated. The General seemed to be melting before his eyes, the steel-metal waving back and forth from his sight like a spirit, or a vision underwater.
San couldn't think, his body floundered for breath, but there was air, he could feel it against drenched skin…
Then he woke up.
The muun was frozen, fear and confusion marinated his being.
"Heat-stroke," Grievous stated calmly, "It tends to happen around me, apologizes."
San sat up, feeling oddly rejuvenated despite the hot air, as if he'd *actually* gone for a swim. He was awash with shame, it had been so unprofessional to have fallen asleep; he was grasping for excuses, an explanation, as he stared down the General's fiery ire. But he was tongue-tied, gobsmacked as he choked on his own surprise.
He moved to stay words, anything at all. But his breath did not push nor flow.
The melted toast was still eating into the ground.
It had happened.
It had been real.
"How?" Finally, a sound wrestled free. His voice didn't crack, his throat was quenched and not a bit parched. One word felt like a waterfall.
Grievous laughed, clasping his knees, and he looked extremely pleased; almost bashful as his serpentine neck bobbed up and down.
"Do you have a sock?" Horrible furious eyes, seemed to cool like a wandering ember from a fire. Grievous looked curious, happy….mischievous?
It was uncanny and horrifying. A killer's toothless smile couldn't have been good.
San didn't dare say another word and threw the General one of his socks, an expensive piece of silk, but he'd plenty at home.
Anything the General asked, he would give, no questions asked. His life was at stake after all.
He subconsciously pushed forward plates of food and anything else he could use to separate himself and the mad General. Eventually San settled on cowering behind the cages, the animals inside eerily silent.
It had been real.
It was real.
Was real.
San Hill's political-career ensured his life did not lack of experiencing the Galaxy's finest mysteries, horrors, and realities.
A dip in the supernatural he could handle, "Yes yes," he told himself, as he rocked back and forth. He'd done it before, plenty.
General Grievous didn't move for a long moment, eyes squinted as if making a decision.
He held up the sock, making a flourish as he placed it on his fist.
It didn't fit of course, but neither San nor Grievous cared.
"Imagine I am this sock."
San nodded, without question, *it was the most interesting sock he'd ever seen*, he'd agree or do whatever to get out alive. "I'm going to die!" His mind wheeled in circles. "I'm going to die!" But his political mask refused to crack; his eyes blurred with unshed tears.
Grievous continued, his eyes wandered to look at nothing and his voice dimmed to a whine–perhaps becoming bored, detatched…
"But if I am the sock, what is the rest of me?" He gestured to himself, pushing out his legs for emphasize.
San nodded almost near fainting, with hands clasped in prayer, and Grievous rolled his eyes. It was a pathetic display.
"You know puppet-shows, right?" He paused, San nodded more frantically.
"Well this sock is a puppet; I am a puppet, the Grievous you see."
He held up his arms, unclasping the set into four hands. He braced forward on his toes, resembling a dramatic specter.
"This body isn't real, San, its a puppet; but of course you know that." The General winked.
Suddenly, his four hands rushed aggressively to his neck, causing himself to emit a strangled whine, choking.
SCRAPTiiiizzzzzzz
Grievous's head flew clear over a palm tree, landing with a crash as it impacted a pile of bones.
San didn't dare say a word, his eyes fixed on the head's trajectory and eventually Grievous's fizzling, decapitated body, still standing it was. The remains of the robotic neck spewed droplets of both red-blood and green-bacta, mixing together into a gruesome brown effluvia which peppered the air like chocolate sprinkles. Rubber muscles of the neck lashed like vipers, spewing electricity and fire.
But through it all, Grievous didn't seem distressed. Despite his head being missing, he was still there.
His fire-lizard eyes blinked calmly, hovering in midair as if his face hadn't been knocked clean off.
There was no flesh, no pain, no gravity.
The eyes looked unreal, flat with no structure behind them, but they blinked all the same.
The sock came into play, being thrust upward atop an unsteady dead-fist. Grievous's eyes floated over, settling onto the soft silk like a pair of bugs.
His dead-fist began to puppeteer the sock into a hand puppet and it began to mimic speech.
Grievous was just a set of flat eyes, but he spoke.
"It feels good to drop the façade now and then. Surely you understand Chairman, being a politician…"
San Hill nodded. Grievous smiled, though it could not be seen.
Suddenly, the sock burned away and Grievous's eyes floated back into position as his decapitated head rebuilt itself out of thin air.
"That's better."
San collected himself, remaining sane by concluding he was still asleep. He found himself grasping the jar of moonglow, out of fear, out of greed.
He pointed at a slice of bread.
"Would you like another?" he asked.
San Hill was so sure he was going to die. His legs had reduced themselves to gelatin; he didn't dare move from his seated position besides his picnic basket. He cradled a bowl of berries and tried to calm himself by their sweet crunch. Surely, he was still dreaming?
He was going to die.
He was going to die.
Perhaps his "heat-stroke" had actually killed him?
Behind him Grievous was currently inspecting the caged creatures. San didn't have the nerve to see the General's first impressions.
"San Hill," he hissed.
"Y-yes?"
"Why a loth-cat and a nexu?"
"O-oh," it was hard to sound professional when trembling. "B-because General, those specimens aren't just *any* cats, but rare genetic-morphs of their species."
San found his nerve, standing on shaky legs; he had to prove his usefulness, dream or no.
"A-allow me to explain." He gestured to the loth-cat, whose pure white coat drowned its skinny body in velvet fluff. It looked like a living pillow with embroidered red buttons for eyes. It smiled as if it continuously tasted limes.
"This loth-cat is a wild-caught albino morph. I had to use extensive Banking Clan resources to ensure its capture."
Grievous huffed, waving a hand. "And?"
"Well then," San paused to clear his throat, "and this stealth-black nexu has been specialty bred from forest-stock, a process tediously overseen by the Banking Clan." The nexu had reduced its claws into nubs from scratching endlessly against the cage, yet despite its pain, still scrapped and raged against its metal prison.
How defiant. Grievous could see himself liking this one.
"This breed of nexu sees popular use in gladiator pits and as exotic palace guards. They are more intelligent, aggressive, and most interestingly, grow larger than the average nexu."
Grievous observed the nexu. He had never seen a black one before.
The nexu's pitch coat and double set of gem-red eyes just screamed Sithly creature, and its mangled splintered teeth were reminiscent of Plagueis's smile.
Grievous nodded his approval. "I'll take the nexu."
San bowed and politely smiled. "As you wish General."
Grievous then looked at the loth-cat. Though he wouldn't be needing it for his ritual, it might serve more useful than the nexu. His claws wretched open the cage, decimating the lock-mechanics, which rendered the entire structure useless.
"You said the loth-cat was wild."
If San disapproved, he dared not voice it.
The loth-cat stunk of fear and droppings, but when its feet touched grass it ran off without hesitation. Its goofy chesire-grin was spread widely and its floppy ears stood peaked when it managed to find its freedom up a tree.
"G-general?" San hadn't expected to lose both his prized animals. Normally, the Chairman would demand compensation for the loss...but...he wasn't stupid enough to try such with Grievous.
Grievous rolled his eyes. San's fear of him was getting less amusing and more predictable by the second. "It was good you found the loth-cat," he complimented slowly. "It ended up being a piece to a puzzle I failed to address."
"Oh?"
Grievous pointed upward, revealing a quiet colony of nesting white reptavian-sparrows. "Those birds...are reminiscent of the blue leather-feathered peko-peko of Naboo."
"Yes?"
Grievous sighed, watching as the loth-cat attempted to disappear against green leaves and red bark, but its white pelt betrayed its position every time.
"They're one of the few species native to Kalee that are not extinct and too many live in this oasis. The loth-cat will be the perfect creature to cull their numbers."
San hummed thoughtfully. "I see, I see...and it was a stroke of genius both creatures have white colorations. Not only does that level the playing-field, it helps protect from the sun's deadly radiation."
Grievous crinkled his eyes upward in a weary smile, happy to know San wasn't completely braindead. "Well put Chairman." He picked up the nexu's cage, his mind already distracted and humming with the pending paces of the ritual. "Anyhow, you clean up while I'm gone. I've got work to do."
"Am I not permitted to attend?" San crossed his arms, feeling offended. After the trouble he'd gone through to get those cats…
If Grievous still had teeth, his tight smile would've bled his gums.
"Would you like to see me eat again, San?"
Oh no...San didn't want to be next on the menu...
"A-alright, I understand General." He could have sworn one of his hearts stopped. "Some things I best not be seeing."
Reentering the darkness after so long in the sun was bliss. The cave cooled his metal just right.
Grievous felt downright cheery and he walked with an uncanny bounce.
He never got to resurrect the dead.
Not anymore.
The Sith Empire didn't exist.
His talents had been reduced to mere murder.
Just boring genocide day after day, that Dooku would command him to do.
Perhaps under Darth Plagueis things would become interesting again.
Like it had been.
Like in the past.
Grievous smiled, one greedy and hungry. Back when he had flesh and teeth to show, he actually smiled a lot.
Not like Dooku would know.
Not like anyone would besides Plagueis.
Now he had to settled for his mask cracking against its curvature. A smile it was not, but in the dark cavern he was home and didn't have to hide his peculiar features.
The apex of the ritual had arrived!
He placed the nexu cage on the diameter of circles within circles. The nexu's crying red complimented Grievous's sadistic yellow. The nexu-creature was silent and no longer fought against its prison; it was not oblivious, it could smell its doom.
*It knew what Grievous was.* A creature of sulfur, elder power, and creative agony.
Grievous patted the top of the cage sympathetically. It was an intelligent soul. He wouldn't see it go to waste.
Grievous grabbed at the darkness, coming away with a mere handful of dull blackroot-crystals, raw spirit ichor shuttled all the way from Dathomir.
He crushed the crystals into a satisfying powder. Precious green dust filled the cave, akin to bioluminescent spores. If one was to listen closely, the green would whisper like the freshly dead and Grievous's audio-receptors perked up to capture the soothing vibrations.
His vocorder sizzled; and Grievous coughed, and laughed, giddy from anticipation.
And his face abruptly burst into a tender green fire.
His skull-mask slipped from his figure like a skin, landing with a satisfying clang.
The fire sped down his neck like a liquid-snake, tasting the sweet flammable bacta within his belly.
"Yes! Yes!" he screamed. His empty mask remains and horned-antennae withered, forming a fixed, agonized expression in two mere floating eyes.
The fire became its own creature, twisting within his consumed organ-sac, turning and turning until it congealed back into the oval organ-chamber it had replaced. It oozed out of his body, like slime mold, like blood made of gold.
Without struggle nor mentions of pain, Grievous allowed the newborn plasma to consume his legs, which twitched and sputtered like a weak fawn.
He began to experimentally step around his ritual circle, leaving globules of green plasma which ate the stone.
He hummed softly, sounding unlike himself now that his vocorder had been made absent. He was distant, far away…severed from his burning puppet.
Decades of living as a mundane kaleesh gave him the impressions of what was normal, mortal, but now he was able to peel away his puppet's skin–such a rare occasion it was, to clean reality's grime, it almost made him happy. Only his cybernetic arms remained, floating in suspended animation, which are the pieces Grievous always saved for last; it was the most convenient method of decomposition.
His arms split into four, each bending backwards to resemble the melted skeletal structure of a wing.
His obsolete tissues of eyes, spine, lungs, nerves, blood, brain, and tongue all seized and collapsed, each replaced with replicas of golden light. Grievous became rooted to the ground, his legs reduced to a molten trunk of slag.
There was no pain, only joy.
The nexu within the cage had been rendered unconscious. The intense miasma of Grievous's ethereal-self had been too much for the small, inexperienced creature to bear. Grievous retwisted his broken-backward arms forward, gripping the cage's corners. The cage-metal grew soft enough to fold, Grievous shaped it like clay. The nexu inside died quickly, as it disintegrated when the metal was rendered into a sphere; his four arms moved with meticulous precision, rotating the metal faster and faster, into a spiting liquid sun.
The plasma within Grievous's chest cavity moved forward without perceived command. It enwrapped the sphere, turning it into the roaring heart of a lion. Grievous's arms continued to rotate the mass, resembling the kneading of bread, serving to shape the plasma into an oval cocoon–or egg.
Grievous resembled a great burning spider, weaving its web against the surface of a sun. He stretched and pulled the metal, but it kept its shape, nor did it stop.
He thought of Plagueis.
The Sith Lord would've loved to see such a display, as he was the inquisitive, science-minded sort…
But it wasn't meant to be seen by anyone who wanted to keep their eyes.
Eventually, the cavern dimmed.
The rocks grew cold.
And Grievous cradled a reborn creature.
Oh right.
San had been staring at the sky.
"So, Chairman, perhaps you didn't think I'd notice, but," Grievous pretended to clear his throat, "What had you so spooked earlier, when you landed?"
San Hill stiffened in his seat. He trembled, but said not a word.
Grievous was tempted to smack him senseless, but considering San was the one driving, the results wouldn't have been in his favor; nor in Plagueis's.
Grievous had commandeered San's *lucky* picnic basket and had placed the Sith Lord inside. It would be some time before he came to.
Grievous growled...a bitter, impatient rumble which took him by surprise. He didn't expect to miss Plagueis *at all.* He wasn't supposed to play favorites with souls.
Yet this one had dared to broker a deal…and he'd gotten attached; however, Plagueis was also the Galaxy's last Sith Lord, his favorite food, so perhaps it wasn't so ridiculous that he had. Dooku and Sidious, nevermind Ventress, were each too pathetic and starchy to be Sith.
Grievous opened the basket, which puffed out steam from the heat contained inside. A body born out of a sun didn't cool down in an afternoon.
That caught San's attention and eventually he found his nerve, but didn't dare look at Grievous or the basket.
"Something is following us."
"What!"
San's nails splintered as each dug into the steering controls.
Who was?! Had the Republic found them? Had Count Dooku caught wind? How...!
"It's not what you think, General!" San sucked in a deep breath, puffing his chest out in salvaged pride. Still, he closed his eyes in case he was to die.
It was good San had been fast to speak, else the muun might've been left with a limp neck. Grievous was much too tired for patience and manners.
"Go. On."
"P-perhaps it's just paranoia. You must excuse me General. I'm not used to these *unique* sort of dealings."
Grievous said nothing, inching closer to crane his head threateningly besides San's quivering shoulder.
"I said, go on." Grievous could sense San wasn't being entirely truthful.
"I-it's...I don't know!"
"You. Don't. Know."
"Yes!"
Grievous believed San then. Like a Jedi with mind-tricks, Grievous had his own skills.
Besides, San had no reason to lie otherwise...
Grievous looked out into the stars. The hyperdrive of the ship had yet to engage.
His eyes lingered on the picnic basket. He looked out into space, leaned back and allowed himself to relax. He pulled Plagueis close to his chest.
"You know Chairman," he paused, not keen on conversation, "I understand what you mean."
"Undiscovered horror exists all around us. We just can't see it."
San Hill nodded politely, but frowned, looking at Grievous from the corners of his eyes.
"Undiscovered horrors, indeed," he thought.
Of course, San was too terrified and not stupid enough to talk.
That was alright, Grievous thought. He preferred silence.
He reached down into the basket and protectively placed a hand over Plagueis.
The Sith Lord was soft.
A/N: This story is a temporary one-shot. A Discord group I'm apart of is voting on aspects of the story and more chapters will be posted.
Feel free to review and comment any suggestions and/or element you'd like to see-like light and dark Lovecraft horror sort of stuff.