A/N: this is where the inspiration bunny escaped its burrow… though personally, I do find the ending satisfactory.


Approximately a decade later.


As she worked in the Nalis Quarry, the horrid memories still lingered in her head, despite how much the voice was execrated, despite how dreadfully she wished it would go away. The stupidly, shamefully humane part of her mind still clung on—

"No! NO, ELAR'A, SAVE ME! HELP!"

Waterworks had been pouring down Lish'a's face as she was dragged away by the slavers. They'd been scouring through the slaves, searching for potential sex workers to send off-world to Hutt space, to be sacrificed in the red-light districts of Nar Shadaa and appeal to Imperial-allying, grotesque slugs.

Amongst all who were selected, her sister had been the lone non-twi'lek, as well as the youngest member. SHE DIDN'T DESERVE THIS FATE! She could have been saved, she could have been saved, if she'd tried harder—

(At least that was what Elar'a had thought, all those years ago, when her mind was still riddled with naivety and the notion that Lish'a would never commit such transgressions.)

They'd been separated that day, to work on different foundations for a new project of His Majesty's. The sight in which Elar'a was stationed at had been particularly filthy, which was perhaps why the slavers had not checked on anyone in her area...

Although between the twins, with those damn curly blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, Lish'a was the one who was renounced for beauty anyway. If the placements were full to begin with, then Elar'a still would not have had a chance to join her sister in her newfound suffering.

She had sensed Lish'a's cries. Without a second thought, the slave had sprinted toward her twin's location, desperate to find the young captive, and she had spotted the transport lifting off—

Reached out with her coarse-skinned hands, strained as hard as she could to grasp it with invisible claws, to PULL IT BACK—

Nonetheless, ultimately, the transport's boosters out-competed the slave's powers...

But she had been wrong. So utterly wrong.

Such soft-heartedness only belonged in her nightmares.

She'd overheard the slavers ramble about how the sex slaves received drastically better treatment than the sordid ones of Dromund Kaas, that they could even earn credits if they worked hard enough—

Of course, she was not irritated, then. Her sister had not even reached teenage years and had already lost her purity to hungered hounds.

During lonely nights, through the bond that they'd managed to manifest during childhood years, she'd comforted Lish'a through sleeplessness and weeping, prayed with her for a better future. In return, Lish'a had promised to earn enough credits to buy Elar'a out of slavery.

(But oh, she'd increasingly thought, how petty was Lish'a... She had food and shelter and a decent amount of credits traded only for the loss of virginity, whereas I am rigorously laboring away with a near-broken back and calloused, bleeding hands, barely managing to get by with starvation in the wasted slums of the shackled.

Though still enslaved to the providing of pleasure to customers, she was freer than I.)

But one night, two years after their separation, Lish'a had remained wholly silent as Elar'a felt a turbulent rush of emotions pass through their bond. It took quite the prodding and cautious peering for Lish'a to finally, and reluctantly, answer...

"The Jedi came along and rescued all the sex slaves. I'm... I'm free, 'Lar'a. I'm free... I'm sorry."

And that was the end.

In a wild fury, the bond was snapped. Unprecedented agony, more painful than even the harshest whip, had pierced through their minds; but did it matter? She'd abandoned her, SHE'D FORSAKEN HER TO THE FAMISHED, UNYIELDING JAWS OF SLAVERY—

This was— obscene!

The bonfire and life-blood-seeping hands, the promise, all for naught—

So, that night, amid a pounding headache (or... heartache?) she took away the apostrophe from her former name. Now, she was only Elara—other than the surname to honor their sire, there shall be no remaining connection between the enslave and the freed. Teary-eyed and utterly cheated, yes, but now also crazed with a desire to bring upon a massacre...

In the midst of a starless midnight, a trail of blood was etched in the rummaged Jungle. Corpses of wild beasts, hopelessly slain, was proof enough of her spite. Another thick blanket of frenzy was gifted upon the cluttered, perpetually towering trees.

The next morning, as the glowing electro-whip once more struck her scar-laced spine, yellow eyes lit ablaze in reply.

As fast as a bolt charged out from a pulled blaster trigger, the electro-whip flung out from the slaver's hands. In less than ten minutes, to the astonishment of her fellow slaves, all the masters were dead.


It was 'till a few years after that Elara picked up the Jedi Code after hearing it recited in disdain by one of the Lords, and, for once, she had an agreeing opinion with the snob. Then had she finally realized she'd tried to enforce primitive versions of that cancerous doctrine upon herself ever since she'd heard a captive Republican utter the first verse.

By now, the nightmares had long gone.

What fool was she, advocating for peace!? Ah, such gullibility, such dreamy-eyed idealism, so vastly quixotic in this dire galaxy. How had that imbecile's blood-twin even tolerated initially those pacifist teachings? It deserved a good, hard laugh, and in the end, it received one.

That night, she'd almost choked on her stale stew at the thought of just how ridiculous her blood-twin's fantasy was.

Perhaps she'd had angelic crystal butterflies in her heart once, but she had seized those already fading flickers of light and love and compassion and crushed them ruthlessly by the palm.

And now all that remained was a black, raging furnace, a splintered wasteland-heart, ravaged and plagued with the wild, unrelenting torrents of bleakness and loathe unsheathed from the Dark.

Silly weakling.

One day, the Jedi shall fall.

Peace is a lie. There is only passion.


Booze reeked in the musty air; faint jizz could be heard playing in the background by a band of Bith. The seedy cantina was full of mostly-naked girls donning outlandish bikinis and a small flap of fabric that hid the vulva region of the feminine body. Normally Elara could care less about the conversations that buzzed around these drunken officers and Sith, but this time, as she twirled around on her thick pole and brooded in her miserable profession, she could not help but latch parasitically onto a certain conversation.

It was a vigorous, incensed scream-fest about some kriffin' Jedi that had managed to halt the attack placed on the origin planet of the Sith's sworn enemy. She thought it to be humorous at first, with the Sith's constant stumbling and loud, infuriated pounding on the table, until she picked up the name...

"...Hero of Tython!"

Hero of Tython. HERO OF TYTHON.

"Someday, when I become a hero, I'll even go to Tython! I heard there's a looooot of golden sunshine and pretty flowers there."

And she knew, just knew, could sense it in that strange "Force" that she was apparently sensitive to...

It was her.

Yes. "Lish'a Aniyo"—with a holler, the Sith gave the foul name of the supposed Hero.

How dare she claim herself glory when the shackled still resided in grueling work? How dare that scum ridicule her twin sister, the one who had selflessly protected her, who had brought along solace during the darkest times!?

Traitor. Liar. Fiend.

I'll murder you... I'll murder you...

WHY WAS SHE ALWAYS FAVORED!? WHY DID SHE ALWAYS END WITH THE BETTER FATE!? FAME, ADMIRATION, ACKNOWLEDGEMENT, YOU NAME IT...!? AND YET HERE I AM, STILL SELLING MY BODY AS SOME DETESTED, WORTHLESS LOWLIFE!

I ABHOR YOU.

You were always weak, you do not deserve this, I WILL TAKE WHAT IS MINE—

Just you wait...

Just you wait...!

Slap!

A remorseless smack to the face forced Elara out from her thoughts. Oh, yes. The pleasured life of servitude—now as a sex slave.

Just like what the Fiendused to be.

But no, she would not allow herself to be conquered as the Fiend had been. She would make herself noticed, for only then will she move up the ladder to bountiful triumph and unlimited power. She'd already decorated herself into an "exotic" specimen: a treacherously elegant Corellian panther who dared adorn heavy scarlet around the eyes and on the lips. And one day she would find her way out, she would utilize her power and inflict upon Fiend the ultimate torture, and SHE WILL WATCH WITH PURE DELIGHT AS THE TRAITOR TAKES A FINAL GASPING BREATH BEFORE HER EYES, THEN SLUMP TO THE GROUND—

"What're you waiting for!? You have a customer, slave!"

I'm not a slave, I'M A PERSON,

AND I WILL DESTROY YOU, AS I ONE DAY WILL THE FIEND—

With a twisted smirk and the tinge of orange spreading across her sharp, violent irises, she tore herself from her frenetic mind and lithely stepped down from her performance set. With a graceful bow that hid the savage nature, she murmured, "yes, of course."

The alluring smile that lingered upon the charming face was enough to hide her glowers and bile-tainted intentions.

Of course, I'll annihilate you... after all, I must hone my abilities if I am to bring an end to that pitiful scum's existence.

She silently trailed behind the bulking Sith, the fervent rage well concealed behind an, other than the seemingly craving smirk, impassive mask as she plotted, plotted... She bit her lower lip, trying not to let the warm, tingling lightning give its familiar and immensely destructive fizzle between her fingertips... no, she would not incinerate him yet...

Into the enclosure, onto the bed…

Sleek hands ran along the chest, bringing about arousal as she took to undress herself while being brushed by a sensitive spot.

Indeed, he was an urgent, starved one...

Wait... Endure... Wait for it...

And finally, when he began removing her front flap, she abruptly pushed the Sith away. Vicious purple tendrils extended from flexible, if not atrociously weathered, fingers.

The other slaves would've let themselves be dominated, but her, she was an unorthodox one. Obedience and submission were not among her strong suits. She demanded herself be the champion...

Alarmed green eyes, darting between predator and prey—"Elar'a, mercy is the better way!"

No. The galaxy held no mercy for her, therefore she shall grant none back upon the galaxy. Just how obtuse was her twin!? The blonde fiend had always fought for equality, and THIS IS equality!

With a wicked grin of gratification from the formerly naive dullard (but no more would she allow stupidity and morals to hold her back, no more would she permit cowardice, SHE WILL ACQUIRE AS MUCH POWER AND GRANDEUR AS SHE PLEASES), the sleen who had attempted to attack slumped to the ground.

It turned out that this Sith had only been an acolyte and held no ability to repel the attack. The fool was shoved cruelly into a wall as the vibrant violet vines callously caressed the skin.

Oh, the show was of utmost splendor. Quite entertaining indeed, even if the sole audience was also the plot-driving performer.

"Why are you so envious of me!? Elar'a, you've changed, you're becoming a livid, chaotic, venomous and esurient snake—"

You are the snake! Jealous!? JEALOUS!? You broke your promise, you betrayed me, you abandoned me! Do you know how ravenous I am for you to suffer the same agony!?

Euphoric, raucous cackling echoed the small enclosure as those gleaming yellow eyes flickered into the bloodiest red.

"Cease your accusations! I never wished to leave you behind— let go of your hate, see the truth! You're a good person, I beg you, don't go down the wrong path!"

LIAR! Accursed fool! From the beginning, I, the Protector, had been the belittled and teased and uncherished one but still I'd held my unwavering presence by your side, and now you, the one my unsophisticated mind had so loyally trusted, made me the Deceived!

You left me in the cold grasp of indignity!

The lightning screeched and whirled throughout the room in a hurricane of energy. Without notice, the Sith had soon succumbed to the superior power of her ruinous attack. Hideous streaks of silver marred the exposed skin of the unfortunate corpse—all the reveling Elara's marvelous doing.

A single tear of exultation smeared the scarlet of her eye-shadow. The clear liquid diluted, a crimson droplet rolled down.

Yes... yes...! Another dead, another dead... another dead...! Lish'a Aniyo, you will face my wrath, I will show you truepower!

I've seeked retribution for years, and surely, I could wait a few more…

But in the end, I shall be paramount, I shall succeed!


Thus, with the discovery of her tremendous Force-sensitivity from another fellow Sith who had picked up the repulsive yet satisfying wails of torment and then observed the scene of a lightning-encased corpse crumpling to the ground, Elara Aniyo was sent to the gelid planet of Korriban...

The Force broke her chains, and now she was, alas,

Freed.


Once the ghost of Aloysious dissipated into the chilly air of the starship Fury, it was with finality that no more did Elara Aniyo exist.

The Fiend had always been subpar in strength and mind.

(But never had the Fiend been swathed by the ashes of the Dead, though nor is it guiltless and angelic; the beast just has a few drops less of blood on its hands—)

There is only Lord Kallig, noble and great.

(And putrid and vile and brimming with all things hateful, though the divinity of the soul mattered no more—)

Let the past's phantoms die in flames.

Unlike her rival, she will make her ancestor proud.

Upon activation, the lethal beam of blood-light crackled and hissed, just like her frigid, bitter, malice-ridden heart.

A feeble, mortal body, doomed for the void, writhing in agony as she unleashed her crepitating scourge...

She will giggle as she takes the decaying entrails and makes a gorgeous necklace.

And when the crimson lightsaber plunges into the Hero of Tython's chest, she shall have her revenge.

Murder and mayhem await!