Danielle woke up in an absurdly cheerful mood.

Somewhere, deep inside her, she knew that cheerful was probably the one emotion she really shouldn't be feeling, that panic and terror were more appropriate; melancholy, at the very least. But logic didn't seem to be terribly important in her life right now.

Kicking the encumbering bedcovers aside–and wondering, briefly, exactly whose bed she was stealing–she bounded out of her chambers and into what was apparently the main living area.

Qui-Gon, sitting on the couch in the middle of the room, looked up from the datapad he was reading with that same calm smile. "Good morning, my friend. And how are you feeling?"

"Absurdly happy," she told him brightly, bounding to a nearby chair and flopping into it with a dazzling grin.

He regarded her in amazement. "You seem in a mightily good mood for being memory-less in a strange place."

She gave him a mock-evil look. "Do you suspect me of having ulterior motives?"

This startled a laugh out of him. "No, of course not. It's just . . ."

She simply looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Well, I don't know. I think I'd be worried, or at least not so . . ."

"Stupidly happy?" she supplied.

"Well, that's one way to put it."

She leapt up and shrugged. "Well, you know what they say. Ignorance is bliss and all that."

He regarded her with unfeigned amusement. "So they do. Apparently that's truer than I ever imagined, because you, my friend, are certainly blissful." He hesitated, then said, "I don't suppose you remember your name–"

"Danielle," she said recklessly. Last names seemed unimportant. She'd never heard of anyone in Star Wars named Danielle, anyway.

"And I am Qui-Gon," he said, standing and extending a hand. "It is certainly a pleasure to meet you, young woman."

"Great!" she enthused, giving him an overly energetic handshake. "So, Master, what's for breakfast?"

He was grinning helplessly himself now. "You get right to the point, don't you?"

She fixed him with her best superior look. "A girl's got to have her priorities."

He laughed again, his eyes sparkling. "How very true. Well, Danielle, welcome to the Jedi Temple. Something tells me that I'm not going to regret taking you under my wing."

"I should hope not," she replied tartly, stalking into the kitchen as he shook his head in amazement, following her.

As she rummaged shamelessly through the cabinets, he said quietly, "After breakfast, the Council has requested to see you."

Danielle whirled, her mirth vanished. "They–they have?"

"Yes. They wish to examine you, see if you wish us any harm, the usual."

Uh-oh. "Oh," she said, looking down, while her mind was working frantically. What if the Council read her mind? What if they saw that all of this–was just a nonexistent fantasy where she'd come from? What would they do to her?

"What is wrong?"

She looked up. "The Council–will they–you know . . . rummage around in my mind?"

He looked horrified. "Certainly not. That would be the height of rudeness. They will seek out harmful intent, probably, and if they feel anything suspicious they'll follow up on it a little, but nothing more than that."

Danielle relaxed considerably. "Good," she told him with another dazzling smile, and he blinked at her mercurial mood changes.

"I'm female. Get used to it," she said, without even looking at him.

He started. "What–how did you know–?"

She turned around and gave him another smile. Being smiled at like that was a good reason to make a man worried, Qui-Gon thought nervously.

"I just know," she purred. Turning away again, she muttered, "And being around dear Laura for long periods of time does seem to give one psychic powers–or at least preternatural perception."

"Who's Laura?"

She whirled, a promising-looking box of food in her hand. "You heard me?"

"Dear girl, I am a Jedi. Of course I heard you. I repeat: who is Laura?"

"Just a friend of mine," she said, recovering her composure and continuing her scouring of the kitchen. "Well, not just a friend, I suppose–one of my best friends. And a singularly unique and interesting one, at that."

"I would enjoy meeting her."

Danielle choked. "I'm sure that you would. However, not only am I quite certain I wouldn't enjoy the two of you meeting, it is quite impossible. So, sorry to disappoint you, but no. And weren't you going to find me some breakfast?"

He blinked. "I . . . was?"

Another terrifying smile. "You were."

"Oh . . . right." As he moved to comply, with a strong suspicion he'd been hoodwinked, he wondered for the first–but definitely not the last–time just what he'd gotten himself into.

Over breakfast, Danielle glanced down and made a terrible noise. "I'm a mess!"

Qui-Gon looked apologetic. "Well . . . yes. That is how I found you in the street. The Healers merely examined you, they didn't clean you up. And . . . I'm afraid those were the only garments you had."

"I didn't exactly have time to pack," she said drily. "You don't suppose I could . . . well . . . clean up and borrow something before I see the Council?"

"Of course. I still have some of Obi-Wan's things from when he was younger. I bet they wouldn't fit too badly."

Danielle choked and nearly spit out the roll she was consuming single-mindedly. When Qui-Gon looked at her in concern, she smiled feebly. "Oh. That'll be great. Thanks."

Only slightly appeased, he returned to his meal, and she did the same, fighting to keep from giggling.

Breakfast being completed, Danielle had the time of her life locking herself into the bathroom and examining the many newfangled devices with which she would soon be cleaning herself. Her giggles penetrated the heavy door, and Qui-Gon, still in the living room, marveled to himself at her seemingly limitless cheer. "Are you all right in there?" he called upon hearing an indignant squeak.

"Where's the conditioner?"

Qui-Gon was at a loss. "The . . . the what?"

"The conditioner! I have to have conditioner, or my hair will never comb out properly!"

"You . . . do?"

"Of course! You have long hair; don't you need it?"

"Uh . . . no."

"Well, that explains a lot! You really should try–"

"Why don't I run next door and see if I might borrow some from Knight Verrail." Or at least escape, he thought to himself as he shamelessly fled the scene.

He returned a few minutes later, triumphant. "Knight Verrail was kind enough to tell me that she intensely pitied any female who was forced to share quarters with myself and my padawan, and that she wasn't surprised how completely neanderthal you must find our living arrangements. She supplied not only the requested conditioner, but a baffling array of other items she said you would probably be needing."

A hand extended from the door, and Qui-Gon placed the rather cumbersome basket in it. Arm and basket retracted, and the door shut; a moment later a happy squeal emerged. "Oh, bless her heart! I was afraid of having to ask for some of this. Would you mind asking her if she needs a personal slave?"

Qui-Gon chuckled. "I will. Now, I'm putting some tunics and boots outside the door. We can clean your own garments later."

"But I can't wear Obi-Wan's clothes forever."

"Certainly not."

"So . . . after I meet with the Council, we're going shopping!"

Qui-Gon looked stricken. "Shop–shopping?"

The water started. "Of course! Oh, no–" She sounded suddenly distraught. "Oh, no, wait. I don't think I have any money on me. My purse didn't make it, apparently." And even if it had, she somehow doubted they would accept Terran currency here.

"That won't be a problem," Qui-Gon said. "The Temple will be quite capable of supplying you with clothing, supplies, and any other necessities. We have a funding program for homeless–er, I mean–"

"No, don't be embarrassed," Danielle said drily. "I am indeed homeless at the moment, so don't balk at saying it."

"No," Qui-Gon said firmly, "your home is with us now."

"Ohhh . . . how sweet of you! So, does that mean I can't use the funding program?"

"Of course not."

"Good! Then we can go shopping right after my meeting with the Council!"

Again, the distinct impression of having been tricked swept over the Jedi Master, but he repressed it stoically. "Er . . . yes."

About forty-five minutes later, Danielle stood transfixed in front of the mirror. Obi-Wan's older things did indeed fit her well, and apart from being slightly large (especially the boots), it was an entirely acceptable outfit.

Please, she thought, staring at herself with an idiotic grin on her face, please let me smuggle some of this stuff with me when I get back to reality. Talk about The World's Greatest Halloween Costume! This is even better than being a Ravenclaw Prefect! Laura would die!

"Are you quite done in there?" Qui-Gon called uncertainly.

Danielle tore herself away from her reflection, straightened her belt, and patted her hair more smoothly into its ponytail. "Quite," she said happily, and emerged in a puff of steam.

Qui-Gon looked her over with a smile. "You look like a Jedi."

"And who's to say I'm not?" she asked archly, prancing off as best as she could in the too-large boots. "Give me a lightsaber and let's see how long it takes me to dismember myself! Why, I could take on Vader himself at the moment!"

"Who?"

"Uh . . . never mind. It's not important. Come on; let's go awe the Council!" She bounded off.

Laughing again, Qui-Gon followed her, and they set off for the Jedi Council.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The door opened.

Annie, who had had an awful long time to ponder her choices and the possible implications of being in a mental institute, was ready.

With a boldness reminiscent of a true Star Wars character, the moment the person from the Asylum–no, the alien–stepped through the door, Annie launched herself at him–well, she assumed it was a him; it was rather hard to tell.

Apparently neither Drusis nor the physician were expecting this move, because the tackle took out both of them. As they lay, stunned, beneath her, Annie scrambled to her feet again and bolted past them.

The sheer adrenalin and terror of the chase shot through her veins like acid, and instincts she didn't know she possessed kicked in. She sprinted along well-appointed hallways with almost manic speed, trying to find the exit. When she passed through a door, she slammed and locked it behind her, hoping to buy herself more time. A few wrong turns landed her in a bedroom; realizing that she would both stand out in the streets and die of heat, she found a wardrobe, then stripped off her own clothes and pulled on light pants, a top reminiscent of Luke's in A New Hope, and some boots that were a tad too small. Bundling her own clothing under her arm, she bolted back into the hallway–only to run right smack into her pursuers.

The physician lunged at her, hypodermic needle extended; Annie dodged with a shriek, and the blow intended for her instead caught Drusis neatly in the bicep. His eyes rolled up; with a disconcerting moan, he toppled over.

One down, one to go (another town, one more show?). Pushing the stunned physician away from her, Annie took off in the opposite direction–running smack-bang into a small droid along the way–until she reached what was obviously the main entrance.

Trying to not think about how long she'd survive on the streets, she slammed the door shut behind her and took off at a flat-out run, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and Drusis' home.

Mos Islos was an only slightly cleaner, bigger version of Mos Eisley . . . which wasn't saying much. To her intense relief, despite her obviously hurried departure, no one seemed to give her a second glance. They probably assumed she was just some petty thief, thus none of their business, and didn't care enough to make sure they were right.

When she'd traveled about three blocks and several long, twisting turns, she knew she had to stop. Not only was she burning up, her mouth felt as dry as the dusty street below her. Wondering how in creation she was going to get food, water, and better clothing, she ambled along aimlessly, still looking over her shoulder every so often to see if she was pursued.

She didn't know what she was going to do. How in all Creation had she gotten here? Where were Danielle and Krista and Laura? What had happened to her?

She got her first lesson in planetary diplomacy quickly enough. As she ambled along, lost in her thoughts, she heard a voice from her right call out. "Hey, girl!"

She stopped, and looked over to her right. There, sitting casually in a speeder, was a rather unsavory-looking young man . . . staring right at her.

"What?" she asked uneasily.

He looked her up and down. "Goin' somewhere?"

"Nowhere in particular," she returned grimly, starting to walk again. Great. This was all she needed.

"Want some company?"

"No thanks."

He pulled the speeder a little closer and flew alongside her, eyeing her in a most unpleasant manner. Gritting her teeth, she began to walk faster. "Ya sure?"

"Positive," she said sarcastically. "But if I experience a sudden change of heart, I'll come straight to you, you can count on it."

"All right, then," he leered, swerving away. Annie looked over at him–and past him. On the opposite side of the street, rounding the corner, was the physician, a very pissed-looking Drusis, and–stormtroopers!

Before her new friend could drive away, Annie cried, "Wait!"

He stopped, surprised, and looked at her. "What?"

Annie vaulted into the speeder and landed in the seat next to him, rather closer than she would have liked. "Whaddya want?" he asked, obviously startled.

"You know that change of heart I mentioned?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I've had one."

He slowly grinned. "Ya mean ya wanna–"

"I need a ride."

His grin turned to a puzzled frown. "A ride?"

"Yeah, a ride. In this speeder. To–" She took a gamble. "To Mos Eisley."

He frowned at her suspiciously. "A ride to Mos Eisley?"

"That's what I said," she said, now starting to get impatient. Drusis and co. hadn't spotted her yet, but it was only a matter of time.

His expression turned calculating. "Can you pay me?"

She looked at him in shock. "No."

His eyes narrowed. "Then no deal. I don't give free rides."

Annie was feeling a bit desperate. "Isn't there anything–?"

He gave her a lascivious smile. "Sure. If you'll–" he used a phrase which was undoubtedly common slang, and while Annie didn't know the literal translation, she got his meaning.

She swallowed her instinctive 'no'. Drusis was eyeing the speeder she was in suspiciously. "Deal," she said flatly.

He grinned. "Now."

"No," she spat. "After you get me safely to Mos Eisley."

There was a moment of silence as they locked eyes. "All right," he said reluctantly. "After."

"And we leave now."

He looked startled, then gave her a positively repulsive grin. "Impatient, aren't we?"

It took all of Annie's willpower not to gag. "You have no idea," she managed.

"All right, then: here we go!" With a whine of engines, the speeder took off, heading for Mos Eisley and leaving a frustrated Drusis in the dust.

The trip was one of the most repugnant things Annie had ever had to suffer through in her entire life. Her companion kept trying to get her to sidle closer to him, breathing all over her, and making all sorts of lewd comments about what they would do when they reached Mos Eisley. This lasted a mind-melting three hours.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, he pulled in past the fringes and slowed to a stop. "Thanks for the ride," Annie said in what she hoped was a sweet tone of voice.

He leered at her. "I s'pose you've got a place here where you can keep your half of the bargain?"

She fluttered her eyelashes. "Turn off the speeder and get out."

Grinning widely, he complied, finally coming to stand beside Annie who was waiting patiently. Sidling up next to her, his rancid breath heated her ear. "Well?"

"Here," she said sweetly, and slammed her knee into his groin.

He doubled over with pain, moaning, and Annie took off into the fading light. She didn't know where she was going and didn't care. Anything had to be better than another instant in the company of that repulsive pig.

When he recovered from the well-dealt blow, Annie had disappeared.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"No."

Sache looked at her, startled. "What do you mean, no?"

"Just that: no. I won't do it."

"It's not like it's an option, dear," Yare said sympathetically. "We all have to wear them."

Krista stared at the lurid pink–thing–in front of her with the utmost revulsion. "Was this in my job description?"

Sabe snorted and nearly messed up Amidala's elaborate coiffure. "It was in the fine print," the young queen said drily.

"But I hate dresses!" Krista wailed, all the while feeling the futility of her protests.

"Don't we all, dear," Eirtae said sympathetically.

"No," Rabe said indignantly, "we all don't."

With a grimace, Krista turned her attention back to the garment in front of her, and tried to screw up her resolve. She knew she had to wear it, if she wanted to keep from blowing her cover and sacrificing the only friends she had in this galaxy. But . . . she really hated dresses.

Things had started out so well. She'd gotten out of the evil orange robe and taken a lovely hot shower, which not even a bewildering plethora of sickeningly sweet-smelling soaps, foams, and shampoos could besmirch. She stepped out, combed her hair, slipped into this marvelously soft robe–then been told she had to change for the feast that night. And, worst of all, into this.

"It wouldn't be so bad," she said uncertainly, "if it wasn't that color."

A loud "hurrumph!" warned her this was a mistake before Sabe said quickly, "Not that she meant she doesn't like the color you chose, your Majesty, it's just not flattering to her."

Far from backing down in a fight, Krista began loudly, "I did not–" but Amidala cut her off. "I chose? You mean Fate chose for me, I hope! That color is the background of the Gerogonian King's House Seal; I'd have nothing to do with it if it weren't."

Krista decided she liked the Queen a little better than she'd thought she would.

"So why are we meeting with this guy, anyway?"

"Diplomatic negotiations," Yare said in disgust.

"We hope to form an important alliance between our planets," Amidala said smoothly.

Sabe rolled her eyes and leaned in close. "We think the Gerogonian King wants Amidala to marry his son," she whispered in disgust.

Krista was appalled. "But she's only fourteen!"

"Yeah, we know. We're not going to agree to that; that's just the bait we're dangling in front of them so we can wrangle some promises out of them."

"Hey," Krista said, admiring. "You guys are ruthless."

"Welcome to the world of politics," Sache said pointedly. "And dresses."

Krista considered her options. She could refuse . . . and get into all manner of trouble, alienate the only people in this entire galaxy who were willing to protect and vouch for her, and even perhaps get herself thrown out. Or . . . she could endure.

Resigned, she said, "Would someone help me into it?"

A flurry of relieved feminine voices agreed.

As it turned out, this was easier said than done. It turned out that the Abomination (as Krista quickly took to calling her dress) included a half-corset, which Krista had to be laced into, an experience she was not happy with. After the lacing up came the plethora of alien undergarments, each more bewildering than the last, forcing Krista to endure the ultimate indignity of not even being able to dress herself. Then, the dress itself–which, Krista reluctantly admitted, was rather attractive despite its repulsive color and torturous design. The full taffeta skirts, supported by innumerable stiff petticoat-like garments, swept the floor, and the artfully laced bodice was shockingly flattering. The sleeves, which consisted of belled pink taffeta oversleeves and skin-tight lace undersleeves that extended to her wrists, completed the almost-medieval look, only accentuated by the jeweled belt that was added. Highly-heeled dress shoes were forced upon her then, and then walking lessons were necessary, for, as Krista shrewdly pointed out, falling on her butt repeatedly would rather nullify the dignity of the dress.

Walking lessons mastered, Krista could successfully navigate her way through a crowd at a considerable speed and might even be up to dancing, if it couldn't be avoided. When she pirouetted successfully and even managed a formal curtsey without disaster, she received a round of applause, and felt a wave of profound satisfaction wash over her before she firmly squashed it.

"Now, then," Yare said happily, "we're halfway done." Ignoring the horrified look Krista shot her, she said, "Now all that's left are hair and makeup."

Krista felt faint, and it wasn't from the corset. "Wh-what?"

Sache looked at her pityingly. "Have courage, my friend. The worst is yet to come."

"So I gathered," Krista returned weakly. "I have to have my hair and makeup done, too?"

"Naturally," Rabe said, as if wondering how anyone could be so stupid.

"Need some time to recover from the dress first?" Sache asked understandingly.

"No," Krista sighed. "Might as well get it all over with in one go."

With those comments, she engendered a flurry of frenzied activity. She barely was aware of being forced onto a bench, her glasses snatched away, and contacts pressed into her hands. "We can fix your eyesight later," she heard Eirtae inform her. "Right now we don't have the time, so those will have to do." As Krista numbly inserted the contacts, she felt her hair being furiously brushed and gathered. While it was being styled, she sat with her eyes squeezed shut, enduring like a martyr might endure torture. After a few minutes, her hair was finished (it had been curled and pulled back into an elaborate twist that left curls spilling down her neck, and tiny white flowers had been attached, along with miniature jewels, and the whole coiffure sprayed with some substance to make it stay that way).

This done, before she could even recover she was spun around and, before she could ask for a sedative, her eyes forced closed and an insane number of hands simultaneously doing bewildering and terrifying things to her face. First, some strange lotion she prayed to God was moisturizer or something equally harmless was rubbed all over her face, neck, and shoulders; then foundation (although dear, dear, dear Sache protested that she didn't need it, she was overruled and the foundation was applied with enthusiasm), mascara . . . and from there Krista lost track, absolutely overwhelmed. Something was done to her eyelids–she thought they might have plucked one errant hair from her eyebrow–they drew a line under her eyes–they brushed some powder all over her face ("To make you shine!")–they put moisturizer, color, then gloss on her lips–after a certain point, she simply withdrew into herself and tried to shut it all out, wondering if she would still be recognizable when they were done.

After an eternity of this hellish torture, she was done. She felt–violated. Genetically altered, or at least surgically given a new countenance. Wobbly, she rose to her feet, thinking vaguely of escape–only to be shoved back down, informed she wasn't done yet. To add injury to insult, she felt a pink-diamond choker wrapped around her neck, dangling earrings placed on her ears, rings added to three of her fingers and a bracelet to her left wrist. They debated painting her nails, then decided there wasn't time, so they triumphantly paraded Krista to the mirror.

When Krista looked into the reflective surface, she froze. Unable to move–or blink, or breathe–she simply stared dumbly at the apparition confronting her.

"Don't you look marvelous?" Eirtae said happily.

"Where'd I go?" Krista asked stupidly by way of reply.

It was true; the person in the mirror was not she. It wasn't simply that she looked dramatically different, or was nearly unrecognizable; she was unrecognizable. Her own mother wouldn't know her. Complete anonymity, she thought wildly; it's as good as wearing a mask. She also, she noted absently, looked considerably more like the other Handmaidens, as they were all wearing identical dresses and hairstyles.

"Was that so bad?" Rabe inquired cheerfully.

Krista was interrupted from giving her a Look of Death by Sache, who took her firmly by the arm and presented her to Amidala for inspection.

Per instructions, Krista sank into a low curtsey, to the approval of the other Handmaidens. "Very nice," the Queen said, amused. "Does this bring anything back?"

"No," Krista said clearly, then added under her breath, "thank God."

Glancing up, she studied the Queen–and realized just how lightly she had gotten off. Next to Her Majesty, she looked like she was dressed for a casual hike through the forest. The Queen looked almost inhuman–a man could be hiding in that mountain of clothing and hair and no one would notice.

Amidala and Krista shared a look of total empathy. "I hate it," Amidala murmured, "but then, we all endure things for our jobs, don't we?"

Krista smiled faintly. "Of course, your highness."

"Goodness, Kristae, it's Padme," she exclaimed, clasping her hand. "In private, it's always Padme."

Krista gave her another tentative smile. "Yes . . . Padme."

"So," Amidala said, raising her voice, "are we all ready for the banquet? Yes? Then . . . lead the way, girls!"

In a surprisingly dignified procession, the Handmaidens swept out after the Queen, and Krista, screwing up every ounce of courage and resolve she possessed (and thinking almost constantly of a certain Jedi Master), lifted her chin and followed.