Author's Note: This was a hard chapter to write—I think you'll see why. I might not update as often for a while because the end of the semester is fast approaching, and I have a lot of homework. I don't own Star Wars.

In Holding Room 3

Then…

With a delicate-looking hammer, Dr. Rave broke every bone in the Sullustan's hand one-by-one, but he barely heard the creature's agonized screams. How do I break her? He'd been obsessed with 314 for the past two months, and his other "studies" had fallen by the wayside, all but forgotten. He was trying to catch up. He switched to a larger hammer and began breaking the bones in the Sullustan's right arm. After pulverizing the specimen's shoulder, he paused to record its reactions. She wouldn't be screaming—the thought rose unbidden into his mind, bringing with it images of 314 strapped to this same table, biting her lip till it bled and refusing to cry out as he snapped the bones in her legs. He had broken practically every bone in her body that day, and still she'd refused to answer any of his questions with anything other than snide remarks and forced laughter. (He'd attributed her unusual level of resistance to her untainted blood.) He picked up the large hammer again and smashed it into the Sullustan's hip. He wanted to kill the girl—he slammed the hammer into the creature's thigh—he wanted to destroy her more than anything. You want to kiss her. The hammer sank into the Sullustan's chest with a resounding crunch—the screaming ceased. Lucius roared and flung the bloodied hammer across the room where it smashed into a computer screen that sparked and died.

He stared at the blank screen without seeing it. One of his aids scurried into the room and took in the scene with apprehensive eyes: Dr. Rave standing stiffly, hands clenched and shaking, his blond hair a mess, beside the still body of his latest experiment. The doctor had not been himself since the two girls arrived—secretly, the aid, a sickly man of twenty-five with watery brown eyes, felt sorry for them.

"Sir, is everything all right?"

"Take 314 and 315 to Holding Room 3," Lucius replied in a distant voice without looking at the aid, "and I want a squad of stormtroopers there as well." His gaze snapped to the pale man. "And don't touch either of them until I arrive, understood?"

"Yes, sir." The aid gave a jerky nod and fled the room. He hoped that whatever was sustaining the girls would protect them now.

In his mind, Lucius replayed one of his latest encounters with 314:

He caught her singing softly to 315 one night just before he was ready to retire. He hadn't recognized the song—a lullaby of some sort—but it drew him to the door of her cell. She didn't notice him, and he stood there and listened to her haunting voice. The song ended. She looked up and saw him then, and her eyes were brimming with tears. She didn't say anything, just stared at him with those vulnerable green eyes, waiting. He practically tore open the door and ripped 314 from the cell, ignoring 315's startled shriek, as she was jolted awake.

314 was too tired to resist, and he beat her right there in the hall, pounding his fists into her stomach, her chest, her face. She took it without a word, only a few whimpers escaped her lips. He paused and held her in front of him, his hands grasping her shoulders so that she wouldn't collapse, an unasked question in his glassy eyes—he was breathing as hard as she was. Her eyes hardened in reply, and he dropped her onto the floor and smiled when she tried to get up. He lifted her and smashed her into the bars of her cell, dislodging several of the disintegrating heads, which fell to the floor. 314 tried to hit him, but her eyes wouldn't focus, and he caught her hand easily.

"Amara…" he whispered with a tender smile, his fingers reaching to stroke her bruised cheek. Her eyes focused then, widening in surprise. Realizing his slip, he threw her back into her cell and stormed to his chambers where he lay awake all night trying to block out the memory of her voice.

Lucius shook his head—he had to end this.

Amara gazed at the dead alien in the cell across from hers—now that the heads were gone she could see it's emaciated form clearly—and felt a stab of envy. Her whole body ached, her bones felt brittle from being repeatedly broken and repaired, and her skin was a colorful collage of purple, yellow, and blue bruises.

Amy sighed. "Will you tell me a story?" She was in slightly better shape than Amara, mostly because Amara always tried to hold Dr. Rave's attention and take the brunt of the abuse.

"What type of story?"

"I don't know—just a story."

"Once upon a time," Amara began, still staring at the dead alien, "there lived an old man who read a great deal and was distressed by the violence in the world, so he formed a strange plan: to become a knight-errant and travel the world fighting evil in a time when both knights and chivalry were dead. His name was Don Quixote de la Mancha…"

"Did he succeed?" Amy broke in.

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"He chose a quest that could never be completed."

"Why not?"

One of the songs from the musical floated into Amara's mind: To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go…Is that what I'm doing? Will I die in the end like Don Quixote—in a flame of imagined glory?

"Amara?"

Amara started and turned to find Amy looking worriedly at her. "I'm sorry—that story isn't the best one to tell right now."

"That's okay. I don't really need a story anyway," Amy said with a small smile, but she couldn't hide the disappointed slump of her shoulders or quell the growing terror trembling inside her chest—was Amara going crazy? Every day she became more and more…distant, like she was crawling inside her mind, like she wasn't there with her in the cell. It frightened her. Amy knew it was because of the bad man—the doctor who wasn't anything like a doctor should be. Amara tried to protect her—Amy was ashamed of how she always cried when Amara didn't. She was grateful that at least Amara still sang to her sometimes late at night, but even that was becoming more and more rare. She asked God to help her friend.

Heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, and Amara suppressed a groan. One of the doctor's helpers, a skinny, pale man she had seen once or twice before, and four stormtroopers stopped outside the cell. The man unlocked the door with shaking hands; he looked more jittery than usual. Once the door was open, the stormtroopers marched in; two grabbed Amara under the armpits and yanked her to her feet. The other two grabbed Amy.

They were taken down a maze of halls, past many others cells holding many other dead and dying creatures. Amara wondered why she hadn't noticed them before. Finally, they stopped in a rather large, open room that Amara vaguely recognized as the room she and Amy had first been held in after they were removed from the slave ship. Then, it had been empty, but now a single examination table crouched menacingly in the center of the room. The walls were lined with about a dozen stormtroopers. She glanced up and saw several officers in crisp black uniforms gazing down at her from the catwalks that crisscrossed overhead. Dr. Rave was nowhere in sight.

She turned questioningly to the doctor's helper who refused to meet her gaze. "What is this about?"

The young man fidgeted. "I don't know," he mumbled and retreated into a corner.

Amara felt a wave of weariness wash over her, and she leaned on the stormtrooper grasping her left arm. He seemed startled and tilted his expressionless mask down to look at her, but when she met his blank black gaze, he quickly looked away and stared straight ahead.

"I thought we'd try something different tonight—have a little fun."

Amara stiffened at the sound of Dr. Rave's voice behind her. She doubted she'd enjoy his idea of "fun." Amy was already crying beside her.

Dr. Rave crossed the room to the examination table and faced his two subjects. 314 had that determined look on her face. He grinned. "Release her," he said to the stormtroopers holding 314. "Come here," he said to her.

Amara hesitated, but finally, she fixed an ironic smile on her face, and swaggered forward as best she could. She stopped a few feet in front of him and raised her right eyebrow mockingly.

His arms flashed out so fast that she didn't have time to react before she was hauled against the doctor's body in a crushing embrace. His lips ground against hers, and he tried to force his tongue into her mouth. With a furious yell, Amara drove her knee into his groin. Dr. Rave released her and doubled over. She took the opportunity to kick him in the face, throwing him into the edge of the table. She advanced on him, her rage driving away all the pain of her abused body, but before she could land a punch, she was dragged back by the two stormtroopers who had brought her there—one smacked her across the face.

"Wait!" Dr. Rave yelled, righting himself. His mouth was bleeding, and he wiped his sleeve across it, leaving a red trail on the white fabric. The stormtrooper halted his arm in mid-punch. "Just hold her." The doctor, his manic ice blue eyes locked onto Amara, strode over to 315 and ran a hand down her face and across her chest—she trembled.

Amara struggled to break free, but the stormtroopers held fast. "Don't touch her!" she screamed.

"But if you don't want to play," the doctor crooned, "perhaps 315 does." His eyes never leaving Amara's agonized face, he bent down and licked the tears from 315's cheeks. The girl tried to pull away from his mouth, but he caught her chin in his hand. With a smile, he wrapped an arm around 315's waist and pulled her to the metal table. 315 didn't resist but started whimpering. He lifted her onto the table, and slid his hand under her shirt to grope her small breasts.

Amara couldn't bear the helpless look in Amy's eyes—she was only a child. "Leave her alone," she pleaded.

Dr. Rave glanced over his shoulder at her. "Why should I? Do you want to take her place? Because I am going to have a good time one way or another—I don't care who it's with."

Amara drew in a shaky breath. He's going to rape me—my first time, and I'm going to be raped. She met Amy's frightened, confused gaze. But what choice do I have?

"I don't want Amy here—let her go back to the cell."

The doctor smiled as Amy was taken off the table by the stormtroopers and once again restrained. "I think we'll let her watch—educate her a bit. Don't you think?" Amara opened her mouth to protest, but… "Do you want to argue, number 314?" he asked threateningly. She snapped her mouth shut. "I thought not," he said and motioned her forward.

The stormtrooper on her left gave her arm a gentle squeeze before releasing her—it was so fleeting that Amara wondered if she had imagined it, but she didn't have time to dwell on the unexpected touch. She strode up to the doctor with her head held high and resisted the urge to swipe the triumphant smirk off his face.

For an eternity, he just stared at her. His eyes became serious, and he scooped her up and laid her on the table almost reverently. Amara felt the cold metal pressing against her back through her shirt. Above her, Imperial officers gawked, hanging over the catwalk rails. She closed her eyes. Her ragged jeans were slipped off, then her underwear. Ruff hands parted her thighs, and the table groaned as someone else climbed on. A shadow fell over her face.

"Look at me," Dr. Rave urged. His warm breath kissed her forehead. She ignored him. "Look at me," he said again, louder this time.

Amara opened her eyes to find Dr. Rave's face only inches from her own—her vision was filled with his eyes, the eyes of a blind man that bored into her own as if he was searching something behind the misty green. He's trying to swallow me.

And then he thrust inside her. Amara bit back a scream and closed her eyes. Her fingernails cut bloody half-moons into her palms. Amy was sobbing, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over. The doctor's hands tangled in her lank brown hair. The officers jeered, but exclamations of disgust also filtered down from the catwalks. Just let it be over. Just let it end. Let it end.

And then it did. The doctor's body collapsed on top of her—he lay there, breathing hard, and Amara could feel his heart beating against her own. He raised himself up off of her and slid off the examination table. She still didn't open her eyes.

Lucius zipped up his pants and forced a smile onto his face, beaming triumphantly around the room. But his eyes fell on the half-naked form of 314 lying rigidly on the table, and his smile faltered. He shook his head; his eyes stabbed into his aid who was cowering in a corner. "David!"

The young man looked up. Lucius gestured to 314. "Why don't you take a ride?"

David's face turned ashen. He shook his head.

Lucius's smile broadened. He strode over to the young man and wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the table. "Come on—there's no sense in me having all the fun is there, David?" His voice was pleasant, but his eyes warned the aid not to argue. David clambered on to the table.

Amara forced her eyes open. The man above her was crying even as he pulled down his pants. I'm so sorry—his brown eyes whispered. Amara couldn't look at him—she shut her eyes again. The boy finished quickly, and scrambled off the table. The yells from the officers above grew louder.

"Come on down," Lucius shouted to the officers, men who hadn't had a woman in months, "Today, we're having a party." Despite his words, the sound of booted feet on metal treads as the men clamored to have their fun with 314, made bile rise in the back of his throat. He stared at her. Fight, damn you.

Men, grabbing, groping men pressed in on her—Amara could feel tears pressing against the back of her eyes. I won't cry. I won't cry. I won't cry. Her eyes snapped open and a desperate laugh bubbled from her throat, startling the lieutenant on top of her. "Is that the best you can do?" she sneered, "I've gotten better sex from a drunken, half-dead monkey!"

Lucius could have giggled with glee as he watched his officers rape 314 and listened to the insults she threw at them.

"Your mother sucks cocks in hell," Amara spat at the deeply tanned man crawling off of her. She wished her head could spin. "Whose next?"

RL-213 watched his superiors ravage the small girl on the table—the girl who had, consciously or not, leaned on him for support. Blood pounded through his veins, and he had the strange urge to whip out his blaster rifle and shoot his leaders. This is not right. He wasn't sure if he meant the behavior of his commanding officers or his own desires. RL-213 drew in a calming breath and recited the mantras of his training: You do not question orders. You do not question the actions of your superiors. You live for the Empire. You fight for the Empire. You die for the Empire. The girl was laughing, but it sounded like crying too. Is this the Empire? Almost all the stormtroopers had developed a grudging respect for the girl's ability to hold-up under torture—in some cases better than they had in that particular phase of their training. Is this the Empire?

Holding Room 3 quieted, and RL-213 pushed aside his misgivings. You do not question. The officers were leaving the room, some were laughing, but others looked disturbed. Dr. Rave followed them out, throwing over his shoulder: "Take 314 and 315 back to their cell."

The stormtrooper's gaze turned to the girl now abandoned on the metal examination table. She had rolled onto her side and was curled into a ball; her face buried in her knees. He reached the table before his comrade and waved the other stormtrooper away. Gently, he uncurled her and slipped his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. She didn't look at him when he lifted her from the table and settled her slight body against his armored chest. Her lips were bruised red, but the skin around them was icy white.

The other stormtroopers pulled Amy to her feet, and she stumbled out of the room between them.

RL-213 followed behind with Amara in his arms. When they reached the girls' cell, he walked in and laid Amara in Amy's lap, conscious of his squad mates' stares. He hastily exited the cell. The barred door swung closed and locked with a snick. Do not question.

That night Amy did her best to comfort Amara, stroking her back with trembling hands as Amara sobbed into her shoulder. She sobbed into the early hours of the morning, sobbed until she had no more tears left to cry.