The Culprit

Pod Racing.

The most popular sport known in the lesser regions of the galaxy.

The Podracers themselves were small, one-man repulsorcraft, composed of an anti-gravity pod propelled by one or more pairs of large turbine engines. The engines were linked by power couplings consisting of plasma discharges, connected to the pods by lone Steelton cables. These were the basic necessities for a powerful machine to pull off such speed in this deadly terrain. And besides housing the racer's pilot, each pod contained a repulsorlift engine that kept the craft at a specific, low-leveled altitude, with tremendously powerful built-in turbines connected by an energy binder that kept them from detaching. The Podracers usual speed was approximately around 900 km/h. Although having little interest in the works of machinery, Grievous favored the sport respectively. It was dangerous, and it required actual piloting skill to it pull it off. It was a sport to be taken serious and to be taken lightly can cost one's own life along with the remains of its Podracer.

The Outer Rim's sports are truly fascinating.

Grievous summed. Appareled in the same grey cloak that covered his cybernetic body, and mask shaded under its overly-draping hood, Grievous could easily wander around the Mos Espa Grand Arena with ease without worry of having his existence exposed. He just had to keep from drawing attention towards himself, which was uncomplicated. Most of the spectators were too mesmerized by the thunderous roars the racers emitted from their vehicles. If not for his assignment, Grievous would have joined. Such a place reminded him of a sport with a similar nature—a death defying nature—back at his home planet, Kalee.

Muumuu-Fighting.

Yes, he could remember the large domed-structures where the game was held, in the very center of Kaleela, Kalee's capital city. The sport was greatly favored by the many tribes that thrived on the planet. Grievous even remembered a time when he, too, partook. And he would remember the glory, the enthusiasm and good-cheering of his people, and, at one time, he even put on a show humorously.

"Sir."

Oblivious, Grievous had failed to notice one of Jabba's loyal servants approaching him. Grievous detested being disturbed, even on the job. The servant himself was scrawny and straight-out weak, which displeasured the general's mood more so. The very sight of a weakling who dared tread before his path would be his last act as Grievous would have swiftly cut him down. There was no room for weaklings, and Grievous was not one of them. Fixating himself in hunch-ward position, the general turned to face the servant who stopped short in his tracks once he caught Grievous' tempered glance.

"My master wishes to have a moment of you're time," the mortal spoke.

"Does you're master not remember that I am currently occupied?" Grievous snapped.

"I don't know, sir. He gave me a strict order, however, to tell you that his request is urgent."

"I don't care. I don't have time for this; I have my duties to take care of."

"It will only be for awhile—"

"Are you suggesting that I am lying in my position and just laying about out for curiosity. That I, in fact, have the spare time to converse socially, servant-boy?"

"No! Never! Please sir. . . ."

He was about to send a more vicious threat, portending the evil he beheld for the creature's persistence, until he caught eye of the slave's facial structures. Beneath those death-ridden eyes lied deep contempt and strong independence not common in a slave. The man was casually dressed as well, perhaps too well. Was he even a servant person at all?

The slave, still, despite the general's previous protest, pursued further with his master's request. The miserable creature just wouldn't quit.

"S-sir-"

"What!"

"I forgot to mention that the request does concern . . ." the man moved closer, eyeing a few foreigners walking. "Concerning the assassin incident my master briefed me in recently."

Now that was different.

"Very well, lead."

The cyborg then proceeded after the servant, following his chaperone at a fair distant so that he won't be agitated by his hovering guest. Passing the crowd, Grievous ventured through the Hutt's special room where they could watch the race without disturbance. And there, sitting surprisingly comfortable despite the circumstances, Jabba had his eyes glued to race. Shoeing the servant-boy from his side, who left soundlessly, Grievous came up from behind the Hutt gangster— and coughed lightly to make his presence known.

The Hutt flinched by the sound. And when he turned, Grievous wasn't sure if the Hutt recognized him from under his disguise. It took him a moment before he did.

"You called."

Jabba slathered his lips for moisture before speaking in his natural foreign language.

"I have made sure all my guards are posted on all exits and entrances and inspecting all occupants attending the race—racers included."

Paused. Grievous contemplated the situation, and then rose in a fit of mental anger as he started thinking that the ulterior reason this slug summoned him was to tell him of his interference in Grievous' work—wasting time that should be spent on tracking. Then again, what the gangster was doing did cover more ground. Grievous had to get past the grating tone to speak.

"Very good, lord Jabba-"

"But still this assassin is capable of foiling my efforts—even in my own territory," the Hutt gangster gurgled. "What will it take to apprehend the culprit?"

"Assassin's are cunning, Lord Jabba," Grievous said, respectively. This dimwitted Hutt couldn't possibly be thinking that the situation would be that easy. Assassins were keen, deceptive, and above all deadly. Worthy opponents worth the challenge indeed. "I assure you, Lord Jabba, I am operating to the full capacity of my abilities," Grievous tipped his trophy with his free hand to show his temporary-employer his worthiness. Freshly buffed and prepped for future confrontations, the lightsaber glistened mystically for its genuine purpose.

"You better not. Otherwise you'll have a difficult time having you're treaty signed."

"I know the risks," Grievous perked. "On more pressing matters, I wish to know the types of necessary precautions you are undertaking." After his first sudden surprise—a.k.a. orange brat—Grievous couldn't bear another.

Jabba's eyes fell into slits, and gurgled. "I have twenty-three guards stationed at each entrance and exits; no one enters or leaves without notification and a two-minute search."

Grievous approved the preparations gradually. That was about as far as they could cover without any suspicion, no one needed to know unless they were internally involved—and there were few. And by few Grievous regarded to the guards only.

"This is the list of the guards who are involved." Jabba motioned for his servant-boy at his side. The servant-boy came forth, fiddled with the datapad in his hands, and gave it up to the general's awaiting claw. "All should be listed with their appropriate backgrounds and professions."

Grievous looked over each profile carefully. There were twelve Gamorrean's, eight Weequay, and three human. All with their own nefarious backgrounds, capabilities that made them unique, including their past crimes against the law.

When Grievous clicked to the next profile, however, he was in complete astonishment. Wearing a chest plate covering his midsection, spaulders, gorget, and a V-helmet. The human's name was Gurrall Oi, a wanted terrorist. It was him, the man Grievous was sure he faced last night at the palace. There was no need to explain it to the Hutt now—nor last nights incidence—it would only cause the gangster to make rash decisions blindly and further put himself at a risk and less protected.

"Lord Jabba." Grievous held the datapad to the Hutt's face. "Where is this man?"

"Gurrall? " Jabba's eyes widened suspiciously, "I'm not sure. I shall ask one of my guards as to his whereabouts." He gestured for the guard nearest. "Harikk!"

The guard came forth, clad in a peculiar variety for bounty hunter, and bowed. "Yes sir."

"Where is Gurrall?"

"Gurrall?" The man tried the name, until at last he remembered. "Aw yeah! Gurrall! Yeah, he said someting bout checking ta north area before catching a break. After tat I haven't seen hide or tail of 'm."

"When was that?" Grievous demanded sharply. "When!"

The man held his hands up protectively when he saw the cyborg nearly come at him. "I don't know!—like tree hours ago."

"So you haven't conversed with the man since then."

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he listed now?"

"In ta south exit of ta Mos Espa Pit Hanger where they keep all ta Podracers."

With enough said information to get him started, Grievous turned to the Hutt Gangster. The look in Jabba's eyes made the general hesitant with his own words; there wasn't a hint of trust lurking in those disgusting eyes of his. Perhaps a little information would suffice to get him back with a cooler head.

"I believe this man to be a possible suspect in my pursuit." That was as much as he would give him, nothing more and nothing less.

"Are you suggesting that my guards are plotting against me?"

"I'm not sure," Grievous lied almost too perfectly.

"You may proceed with my permission then, the Podrace is about to begin and time is of the essence."

Did he really think he needed permission to kill? The fat lard was not his master; no one was—but the Count and the Count alone. Other than that, Grievous had his own mind to tell himself what to do and where to go. There was no programming or circuitry, only a mind.

Grievous went straight to the Pit Hanger in a hurry, uncaring if anyone noticed his urgency. He just couldn't to be near that filthy Hutt any longer.

The Pit Hanger was empty when Grievous arrived—completely empty. There wasn't a single guard in the pit, or so it seemed. Grievous stayed nearest to the third entrance, programming his prosthetic claws to make a grab for his lightsaber when the time comes. "Gurrall?" Slowly, he stalked towards north exit which was fifty yards away. "Gurrall?"

Against the blistering rays Tantooine's two suns gave off, a vague figure sprinted across and out of sight. Grievous' eyes saw it clear as sky, the armor was very similar and the helmet was no different then from their last encounter. Grievous sprang into action, cutting through the thick air with inhuman speed. It was during these times that the general became aware of what he truly was and the kind of talents that he can perform—only a being such as he could do.

Just when Grievous was about to catch up, the man made a sharp turn and into a crowd of spectators trying to vacate the west stands. Following the trail of pushed-over pedestrians, Grievous had difficulty trying to catch up to the man. When one man toppled over and fell on the general's talons by mistake, incidentally crushing him in process, Grievous lost the guard in the crowd. Cursing in his alien tongue, Grievous removed himself from the West area before anyone noticed the dead mean at his feet.

The incompliance in Ahsoka's mental struggle as the room darkened more so than usual complicated further in the hideous acts she partook. Her heart burned under the rags she was subjected to parade around in—throbbing endlessly with no end. With her mentality at its brink, Ahsoka struggled to endure her abuse if she wanted to stay alive and out of trouble. But one can only handle so much.

At key, Ahsoka twisted her hips to the correspondence of her teachers, throwing herself around like them with her headtails following after her, conducting properly to the music.

The music would stop abruptly, and the she would immediately freeze in an awkward pose like a mannequin.

"Again."

The music restarted, and so did Ahsoka. As the song played on, watched by the perceptive and vulgar, Ahsoka closed her eyes as her only means of defense. Besides the throbbing pain burning her muscles murderously, blood was still rushed to the short headtails into a more noticeable light blue.

Leg twisting, Ahsoka's waist twirled her body, and then unresponsively her left foot took a minor misstep.

"Again."

Pain was building in her legs and hips, stinging as she forced her muscles to comply with the music. During which, Ahsoka attempted to divert her attention to something else – like the whereabouts of Grievous. Where he went, Ahsoka did not know, but a little voice frightened the idea that he must have sold her after all. Oh stars help that he didn't, even if he despised her greatly he wouldn't do such a thing. Would he?

Ahsoka heart told her he would.

He doesn't care about her. Otherwise she wouldn't be doing this. He was a Separatist, and she was a Republican. Yet not even politics and morals could define their differences. He was against peace, she was for it. He wills his weapon for the kill; she willed hers to bring peace. He's the monster, and she the peacekeeper. Both complete opposites, unable to define or look for the true understanding of one another; they build a gap that had been waging on since the time of war between their separate sides. Ahsoka had always felt as though she could not reach to his better side with her begging, his heart was too heavily vengeful for her to soothe.

He was something completely beyond this reality - only a Sith Lord could create and domesticate.

Ahsoka moved to the right, swishing her hips side to side, her natural orange arms following in suit to the manner of liking. With grace, Ahsoka felt she could do better, but without the Force to guide her body, she was an inexperience dancer.

The Achilles tendon in both of Ahsoka's legs suddenly gave out, and she fell ungracefully. Her teachers looked down on her with remorse and dislikement, judging her with coldheartness. They made no attempt to help, not to a pathetic scrawny looking weakling of a Jedi-failure.

Who would? I'm a failure.

Pain kept throbbing in Ahsoka's chest followed by a need to release her emotions all at once. Ahsoka wanted to scream and cry, her hardened blue eyes watering, yet she made her best efforts to keep from falling apart there and now.

"Again."

Please, make this pain stop. Make it go away.

As her body bid to her teachers orders, Ahsoka wondered: Where could he be?

Grievous

"Again."

Ahsoka thought that the pain would never end, until, at last, the music subsided into a silent whisper, and the dancers left her at peace. She was reminded that they will resume after a scheduled bath. But Ahsoka was too overjoyed from the word bath to frown after that. With her best efforts, and extreme willpower to ignore the nails-stabbing feelings beating at her feet, Ahsoka physically instructed her body to follow the other slave dancers to the bathing room. But the walk made it all the more painful, yet at the same time made Ahsoka more so anxious for a well deserved bath. When was the last time she had taken a bath, she hadn't the slightest clue. And right now, the idea of actually taking one made Ahsoka believe it to be a dream. After all the beatings and shock treatments, Ahsoka has finally been blessed by the Force to find pleasure. Who could blame her for being cautious?

Ahsoka quickened her pace, her hopes for a bath giving her strength in each step. But as she continued down the path, she saw where the women slept and lowered her expectations. There were beds with plain mattresses—much nicer than the dirtied one Ahsoka slept in back at the castle—covered in muddied rags and ripped cushions she assumed to be blankets and pillows.

At least they have pillows though. And it's warmer here.

When they finally reached the bathing room at last, Ahsoka was overwhelmed with strong emotions.

The bathing room was . . . massive—and beautiful! There were four bathing pools, marble stairs leading to the larger ones that, at the end of its part of the flooring, opened into a waterfall-design into the two other pools below it. There were shampoos and other items of use on a large table off to the side.

Given two fresh towels, Ahsoka entered the side entrance leading to the lockers. She made quick work of undoing her suit, nearly throwing it into the closest vacant locker and wrapping herself with a towel before going back to the baths. By that time the other slave girls came soon after, all entering the pools while having casual conversations with one another. But Ahsoka was alone in her own hot-filled pool to enjoy.

Removing the towel wrapped around her body, Ahsoka placed it next to the pool, revealing in her naked form the numerous bruises she was still covered in, including the large bruise over her ribcage from her last incident with the psychotic cyborg. After watching the others dip in the warmth of the waters Ahsoka followed in suit, cautious at first, her Togruta instincts unhinged, slowly permitting her first leg to go first then the other, until Ahsoka was completely immersed. Her stripes turned brighter, blushing in tasty pleasure as she relaxed the knots in her muscles. She dipped again, and then resurfaced. It felt so good as it brought life back in her flesh, Ahsoka could already feel the aches in her feet begin to unknot.

Preparing to wash her headtails with the shampoo, Ahsoka felt the collar. She tipped it with her pointer finger, and eyed it malevolently. She completely forgot about the existence of it since she's been so used to wearing it nowadays. She felt for its smooth metal plating, and instantly remembered that horrid man.

I hope he's happy, she inwardly hissed. He tried to cut off her connection from the Force, but yesterday proved otherwise. Feeling the slightest sliver of self-pride, her face indulged in a twisted smirk of glory.

Ahsoka started washing her montrals before proceeding under her third headtail. When she was finished washing over her face, Ahsoka started at her own body, finally getting a chance to properly wash the dozens of scratches and bruises since her slave days. But as she bathed, Ahsoka started getting the feeling like she was being watched. At first she thought she was paranoid due to experience, but when she took a side glance, she could see the dancers taking glances of their own. And they weren't looking at her abuse; their eyes were more set on her collar. And from the way the dancers were staring at it, they were aware of its purpose.

Ahsoka immediately threw her left headtail over her shoulder, bringing up her shoulder as an effort to keep the short headtail put. It did little good, but it kept the others from staring at her further. The room fell distantly quiet after that, making Ahsoka feel at fault. The air soured into dread—whereas through the midi-chlorians view, insinuated Ahsoka of the immediate change.

With much difficulty due to lack of training, Ahsoka tapped into the force as best as she could. It did little good, and Ahsoka was starting to get impatient until at last she felt the faintest thread. Softly, carefully, Ahsoka struggled to touch the aura's that surrounded the women in hopes of understanding them better before confronting them if necessary. The thread rippled drearily from contact—what was it?—contempt?—pity? Did they pity her?

No, Ahsoka feared. They're disgusted with me. They now know that I was once a Jedi, and here I am . . . brought down to their level. I'm so ashamed.

When all of the women were finished, Ahsoka followed from far behind. She just couldn't handle the constant disappointment anymore, especially from people who looked up to Jedi. She redressed quickly as soon as she got to her locker, keeping to herself and out of sight. When she was done, Ahsoka turned and ran into a mirror, and saw herself for the first time with her own eyes.

A slave.

Donned in scanty clothes, a slave collar, and eyes too lost to belong to a Jedi. Not anymore at least.

Hesitantly with shaken hands, Ahsoka touched the mirror as if to see was conspiring in front of her was real. Her reflection mimicked her actions, until both dimensions were touching each others fingers. This wasn't an illusion, or dark sorcery. This was real. Ahsoka's eyes grew wide with fright, fearfully taking steps back. Vague on her surroundings, Ahsoka fell over a bench, but her eyes were still fixated at the clumsy Togruta little girl on the other side of that monstrous reflection.

This is me? It can't—no!

Unable to control her ancestral instincts, Ahsoka forced her arms up protectively. She did not see the mirror at that time for Fear was giving her a different point of a view. A view fueled by fear. As if she were pushing against some invisible object in front of her, the force channeled from her hands and pushed against the mirror so hard that it caused it to crack into a twisted reflection of a girl with a cracked expression. She too was force-pushing back. Seconds later, both were shocked by the collar.

Alone to herself, with nothing but the loud huffs of heavy breathing, Ahsoka kept staring at the mirror—afraid. It took her a while before she refreshed from her small delirium, then slowly brought herself up from the cold flooring to turn to leave. Following her teachers out, Ahsoka took one safe glance back before leaving, making sure that horrid picture wasn't following her.

Halfway through the Podrace, Grievous was still on his hunt for the guard. After losing sight of him, Grievous couldn't find him again. Mentally exhausted, Grievous stopped in the middle of a secluded concession area. Out of mortal habit, Grievous pinched the bridge of his brow, trying to ease the stress he was so conflicted under. Grievous did appreciate the opportunity to be able to get some well needed action—and time away from his unruly charge; Grievous was beginning to miss the seclusion he once had. The peace as well, like on his planet where he could indulge himself with his people's presence, his traditions, and so much more. But no. The war was what kept him away, and it was war that filled the void of that emptiness that numbed inside him.

My people. Without my services to the Federation, they would perish.

With a sudden crash of wind against his cape, followed by the soft silken jangle of the headdress' silka beads, Grievous felt all the strain of responsibility carried away with the dust-wind. He was grateful to have brought the headdress along with him, it brought peace to him when nothing else did. But, like always, it was disturbed fashionably.

Three guards came up to him with anxious looks.

"What is it?"

"We've found him, sir. We found Gurrall."

"And? Has he been captureded?"

"No, sir."

If he could, Grievous would have discarded the man's head like he would any droid—but he couldn't because this man didn't belong to him. He belonged to Jabba, and any desecration of his property would put Grievous at a bad level with the crime lord.

"And why not?" Grievous at last growled.

"Because he's dead, sir."

What?

The man was indeed dead when Grievous was brought to him. Having been moved to the back of the dark alleyway and positioned in such a comfortable position that it would make any passerby assume he was taking a nap. Grievous jabbed the man with his right talon, pushing the man over to fall completely to the floor. The other guards didn't seem at all bothered at that.

Grievous inspected the body carefully. A big struggle had occurred for the walls were scourged with blaster burns. His helmet was gone but the rest of his clothes were on. There were shades of bruising all over the human's face, his lip busted, ear burnt off clean, and his throat swollen. A blaster shot left its marks over the man's chest plate in the area of his heart. And judging by how cold stiff the body was and loss of color, the struggled most likely happened overnight while everyone else was too busy having fun with their party.

I know it was this man. But if he was dead during lasts nights' confrontation, this complicates things all the more. It had to be him, there can be no other. He was the most liable for assassin recognition according to his profile.

Grievous narrowed his eyes on the man's hands in particular; there was blood on his hands. Not his, clearly.

"I want this blood analyzed at once," he was given blank stares. They were too busy taking glances at the lightsabers dangling at his belt—or they were taking glances at him. A strong whirl of wind had brushed his cape, getting caught in between his joints. He fixed himself up quickly and whirled towards the guards. "Now!" That got one of them to listen. He'll have no choice but to dispose of them later. The nearest guard grabbed the man's hand, and processed the blood on his datapad.

"Who found the body?"

"One of the guard's sir. A local person noticed the man last night and when he saw him this morning he panicked, thinking something was wrong, and called the closest guard he could find."

"Sir?" the first guard called.

Grievous acknowledged. "What is it?"

"I just received the results. The blood found on Gurrall's hands corresponds with the Clawdite species."

Strange.

Grievous remembered the Weequay from Jabba's personal block; the other guard was there, too. Leaving to question as to who was protecting the crime lord right now.

"Who is guarding the Crime Lord?"

"We were told two other men would fill in for us—"

"If any change of posts was to be made then I would be notified," Grievous spoke.

"We're sorry sir. We didn't know."

Grievous growled and ran towards the Hutt's personal block. There was an eerie smoke coming from the block as soon as he arrived, and when Grievous proceeded, lightsaber ignited, he was too late. The servant, the annoying persistent one from before, was wielding a blaster near the Hutt's cranium. There were two guards on the floor, dead.

Grievous twirled his lightsaber. "I take it you were the assassin all along, changeling?"

"Yes, but it's too late now." Changing forms, the assassin revealed his true form. A Clawdite.

"For awhile, I really thought you were Gurrall?" Grievous sidetracked, attempting to divert the man's attention.

"The guard was just to throw off any suspicion. Once I was sure you and the rest of the guards were fooled, I killed the servant-boy and took his place."

"Clever," Grievous commended. "But I wonder if this is for show, or with larger intentions?"

The guard smiled rascally. "We intercepted you're meeting back at Cato Neimoidia by chance and heard about you're little transaction." The assassin unveiled, proudly. "But since you shot down my accomplice, I'll take the credits all for myself. You will summon you're employers and send me the money."

"Greed can only take you so far," Grievous tsked. "I ask you. Once the rest of the guards come, do you still believe you can get away with this?"

"Perhaps not. But with the Crime Lord as my hostage." The assassin nudged his blaster against the Hutt's head to make his point. "I'm sure you'll do exactly as I say."

"I think not, you confuse me for a civilized being." Seeing his chance, Grievous threw his lightsaber at the man's arm, cauterizing it off in one swipe. The smell of burnt flesh was eminent. Jabba made a run for cover, surprisingly fast for a slug.

The man swiveled for the floor in pain, Grievous stalked towards the man maliciously after retrieving his trophy lightsaber.

"You're life ends here, foolish one."

Before he swung down his lightsaber, however, Grievous was interrupted by a flash of inner darkness that dwelled in his past.

No. Not now.

"Stop it!"

Grievous blinked. Pausing for a second, staring out aimlessly.

"Please, don't! Leave her alone!"

"Take aim."

His eyes widened.

Gunshots boomed. He watched her fall, unmoving, her eyes looking up to him with sadness and love, until they went still and dark. He reached out for her and cried for her to move, to run away and leave his forsaken planet. But the woman did not. She did not move, or breathe, or stop bleeding from the blaster wounds protruding from her chest.

Vaguely unaware, Grievous had stopped in his tracks as the overwhelming extremity of his past fell over him as if gravity itself was pushing him down with tremendous force.

Taking a slow breath, Grievous recollected.

Back to his senses, Grievous decapitated the assassin's head before he knew it, which rolled out of the block and into the crowd. A spray of blood filled the room, its smell beginning to linger by the amount. A roar of screams could be heard out in the crowds, but at that point Grievous was too blood-crazed at the sight of the blood to comprehend whether they were screaming—or cheering.

"Lord Jabba, now that you have no other distraction for me to mutilate. Perhaps now you will allow the Separatists passage through you're trade routes," Grievous rasped, pass negotiation. All patience gone. "I assume we have an agreement?"

The Hutt nodded without disagreement.

"Agreed."

"Bow."

Ahsoka was pushed down in an awkward bow, before being brought up straight. Two other females watched on as the Togruta child continued to complicate the training.

"You must bow."

"I wo-"Ahsoka was pushed down again.

"This exercise must be practiced little one. It's implicates to a master that his or her slave is obedient."

Ahsoka was brought up again, and this time her feral teeth were shining in the dark, glinting. Frustrated and tired, Ahsoka wanted nothing more than to go somewhere to rest.

"I can't—not to this man!"

"But you must, you belong to him do you not."

"No."

"You must accept you're fate if you want all of this pain to go away."

"I-"Ahsoka struggled with her words. "I just can't."

"Word is that you're master is returning after successfully aiding our master. Do you not wish to make his day all the more triumphant with you're allegiance? Do you not wish to satisfy him? Or will you force his hand and bring more misery upon you're soul?"

Ahsoka fell to the floor, all were watching. The slaves grew closer, their words sinking in. Things didn't make sense anymore. First, Ahsoka didn't know what she should claim herself to be anymore, most certainly not a Jedi for the title did not help—not a slave because she defied it's purpose. She has seen what the Republic ignores: corruption, black-market of a living being, war, crimes. She though the Republic brought everything to justice, but here she was. Witnessing what they ignore. And the Jedi Order, protectors of the peace, also did nothing to stop this. It was too much, all of it. Ahsoka could feel her mind boil like the sun.

Next thing she knew, Ahsoka was presented with another outfit. And this one was scantier than any other outfit she's seen.

"No."

"You're training is finished as of now, this is as much as we can teach you given the amount of time to prepare. In a couple of hours, a party will be held for you're master, and you will dance with the rest of the group in celebration."

It was all going by so fast, life just wouldn't pace itself for Ahsoka.

"But I-"

"You're master also wanted to give you a message before he departed," the voice drew closer, like a snake slithering after its prey. "If you disobey, they will pay."

Ahsoka felt her heart eat itself inside out, her forehead creased and sweated nervously. Would he really do the same he did with the servants back Neimoidia? He would, she just knew. He would to just about anything to get her in line. Even if it meant killing something precious to her. He's already using Plo Koon, he'll most certainly use these poor misguided women to get Ahsoka to obey.

She had no choice. Barring her feral predator teeth, Ahsoka mouthed, "I accept," before grabbing the outfit into her arms.

After returning to the palace, Grievous was welcomed back with an audience. But the general didn't feel comfortable with this—not yet at least—his identity must not be spread. This alone was bad enough, and he made sure Jabba kept his word to keep his associating quiet.

A party was to be held to commemorate his success, but this was known to most of the people who knew what was really going on, the rest were left with the assumption that the gangster desired another party. The party was the same as always. There were large quantities of desirable dishes for the audience, loud music, and dancers, all courtesy of Jabba the Hutt.

Sitting next to Jabba—a seat considered most highly—Grievous kept to himself, bored and uninterested with the party, finding the whole celebration unnecessary. What do they honestly think he is? He is a killer who killed on order. Given the word, Grievous would slaughter all of these occupants without a second thought and mutilate their bodies until not even the finest surgeon could determine where their organs started and ended. He would much rather return to his flagship and bask in warfare he so devilishly desired. This situation was merely a distraction.

"General," called a voice.

Grievous glanced and saw it to be Bib Fortuna. "What is it?"

"You're employers have been informed of the treaty and are now sending the money as we speak. My master is truly grateful for you're valiant efforts—."

"Has my cruiser been repaired? I wish to depart before the days pass."

"On standard time, the ship will be finished by morning—" Grievous gave the Twi'lek a malevolent stare that could have pierced the man in two. Bib caught himself quickly and gulped, "But if you wish it sooner, then I shall order the technicians to speed up the procedure."

"See to it that it is, or I will not be as passive as I am now."

"Yes, sir. It will be done." Before leaving the general alone at last, the Twi'lek turned once more. "I almost forgotten, sir. The servants have informed me that you're slave is finished and is ready to be presented."

"Excellent, at least this whole arbitration was not a waste of my valuable time."

"She will perform along with the rest of the dancers, so enjoy, sir." With that Bib Fortuna bowed as low as he could before leaving, Grievous was glad for that. The man was extremely annoying.

A different tune of music took place; Grievous saw that this must be the dance the majordomo was speaking of from before. About five Twi'leks came forth first in two rows, the pale one taking the lead with two Rutians and Lethans on either side. They twirled one rotation before turning on one another in a perfect circle with their arms crossed over their chests. Opening like a flower, two human females appeared. And Ahsoka was in the middle.

With all performers presented, the dance began.

It was amusing, a little awkward—but amusing. It sure kept Grievous' mind occupied. In fact, he was close to chuckling after seeing the Togruta pup perform her own solo. He didn't know whether to stop it and cackle to his hearts content—or enjoy the show as much as he could. He watched her move her hips along with the rest of the women in tune, each playing their own part of the dance to commemorate Grievous' success. He was just enjoying how this child was starting to look like a slave and less like a Republic dog. Excellent. It proved she was close to being tractable.

When the dance finally ended, each dancer bowed one after another. Jabba raise his hand, and the audience fell silent.

"This party is a celebration!"He gurgled, his interpreter-droid speaking in various languages soon after. "A celebration of how I, Lord Jabba the Hutt, can never be struck down from my dynasty. I shall live on!"

The audience clapped and cheered by the Hutt's words. But Grievous could see that some of the patrons were ill-stricken by his survival. So much for loyalty, but Grievous needn't care. His job was finished.

"General," The Hutt regarded. "Are you pleased by this celebration?"

Grievous nodded slowly. "Very. More so by how domesticated my slave has become. I'm glad that she has learned much during her stay." He saw Ahsoka now and flashed his bright yellow eyes at her. She looked away in turn. "She was no trouble?"

"Not at all, in fact, she's been very behaving."

"Good."

The Hutt beckoned for Ahsoka to come forth from the group, whom, after noticing the seriousness in Grievous' stare, came forth silently with her head dropped.

"Bow."

Grievous was taken aback. Bow? Would she really bow? Would this brat finally yield to her masters? Grievous eyed the Togruta intensely, watching her shivering body bend—his eyes widened just an inch—and at long last, saw her bow before him. His heart literally skipped a beat. Sent back with the others, Ahsoka hid behind the women, diverting her body at angle so that he could not see her. Jabba sent them away, and the party resumed.

Before leaving, Ahsoka turned to take a glance back at the general. Grievous beckoned her to follow the rest of the group; he'll deal with her later.

When the party ended, Grievous was chaperoned to his room and left to himself—which he was thankful for. The room was large with a queen-sized bed with lavishing pillows and blankets most likely stolen, and furniture to match it. Grievous occupied himself to the bed, sighed, and threw back and laid on the bed. It did little good since he could not physically feel the softness of the pillows, but it did help in sense. For once, Grievous was able to enjoy the loneliness he longed for. Though he would much rather enjoy the toils of death, Grievous needed the quietness right now. The most logical explanation of this is because of how stressed and overwhelmed he's been in the past few days. After all, he's had his claws practically tied with the Togruta girl. It hasn't been easy.

Suddenly the entrance opened, and the person who entered made Grievous want to curse at the gods.

Covered in a black robe, Ahsoka walked up to Grievous at distance from the bed—but she didn't move further. She just stood there with her face burning brightly and her stripes more noticeable. Grievous titled his head to the side, clearly perplexed by her action.

"Don't laugh."

Again, Grievous was perplexed.

"What are you doing?"

"Just—Please! Don't . . ." Ahsoka dropped her chin, shaking her head lowly.

With a click, Ahsoka dropped her cloak to the ground and revealed herself. At first, Grievous thought she was wearing a bathing suit, but closer perception showed she was wearing a slave outfit. Too scanty though, and most certainly not his taste for a proper outfit for her age. Still, he did enjoy that devoid face of hers.

She wore nettings with a black leather top that covered over her chest and round her neck—besides his collar-but left the sternum bare, the front zipper ending with a tiny rod-shaped emerald dangling over her sternum. Her stomach was covered in a black net that opened in a long oval shape at her belly button which also had an emerald gem clip-on—better be!—and finished at her black bikini panty, wit black net stockings and elbow-high hand stockings as well. In his mortal days, this would be considered something more tolerant for a maiden ready to be mated, but since he lacked the traits, Grievous was incapable of being tempted.

However, he still had his dark humor.

Just like the performance back at the party, Ahsoka began to dance in melancholy. She moved her hands over her body, falling further, until she crouched and twirled. She twisted and turned, dancing in silence, refusing to speak during her small performance. And when she ended, he could see how weak and tired she looked with all those bruises covering one fourth of her body.

After a silent moment, Grievous chuckled heartedly. Ahsoka glared.

"I said don't laugh-"

"My audio-receptors heard what you said, pup. I heard," Grievous cackled darkly. Bringing up his claw, Grievous tempted her to come closer to him. "Come here, little one. I wish to have a closer look at you." She slowly did, hesitant, her montrals shivering. Close enough, Grievous put his hands by his waist and looked Ahsoka over, relishing the shame the small girl was trying to hide. "Good girl."

Under the impression of terrible harm, the Togruta child flinched as she felt a pair of claws pluck her from the earth's surface and replaced in an area her master felt more convenient: his lap.

Sitting in a place where even the boldest trembled, Ahsoka, petrified, attempted to open her mouth to produce any indication of revolt, distress, anything to express her obvious discomfort. All that came out was air, a silent monotonous whisper of breath over-toned by the audible beating of life and an unhealthy hack.

Ahsoka wanted to leave, but the second her body moved a centimeter out of place, a cold surface touched the side of her right cheek. Ahsoka immediately returned to her original state, shocked by his action. Grievous was caressing her.

Ahsoka snapped her eyes shut, catching her breath by the sudden act of care given to her.

"Look at me, little one."

Ahsoka shook her head, her eyes still locked tight into a safer scene of black. Softly yet forcefully, two smooth claws cupped the Togruta's face and angled her to look upward. Spatially aware of her surroundings, she could sense him move closer to her face. And, as she already knew well enough, those same pairs of golden eyes were probably staring down at her right now, piercing through the very innocence of her soul.

At that very moment Ahsoka forgot how to use her respiratory system after a marble-smooth surface of the devil's face touched the top of her forehead. That was the first time she felt the actual texture of his mask. Her headtails burned. And when that sensational cold touch an organic can never produce removed itself from her forehead, Ahsoka heard a melodic purr that made her whole spine run cold and prickle.

"Look at me."

This voice, completely different from its customary enmity, lulled Ahsoka to submit. Eyelids at last opened, her blue eyes met a sharp set of gold. They were softer than she expected, less guarded and more serene. Ahsoka almost forgot where she was right now.

"Truly a sight to behold."

Ahsoka winced. She wanted to turn away badly, but some part of her just couldn't. A part of her that didn't want to get hurt anymore, no more pain.

"Tell me child," Grievous drew nearest, brushing against her headtail slightly, taunting her. "Do you still think you can defy this much longer? Just the sight of you has shown how far I've brought you down. Very slowly, you are falling."

Keeping together what little strength Ahsoka still had, she hissed. "I will not fall, not to you."

"Humorous. But I can see it clearly, and you know it."

I do. And I'm so ashamed.

"No!" Ignoring that broken voice, Ahsoka clamped over both her montrals. "No. . ."

Observing the child tremble and break, Grievous couldn't help but notice the dark circles under her eyes. She shivered in his lap, at the point of tears.

An idea came to mind.

"I have an offer."

The Togruta was still shivering, Grievous wasn't sure if she heard or not. But when her shoulders went limp and she slowly looked up to him, Grievous continued.

"It's simple, really. Because of how you've been such a good little girl, I'll reward you graciously." The child's eyes grew comically wide. "I'll allow you rest on this bed if. . . you bow like you did before and thank me for all the consideration I've wasted on you."

Ahsoka revealed her disgust. "You can't be serious?"

"I always am."

"And you expect me to throw away my dignity just like that?" Ahsoka questioned with a sand-scraping voice, reminding the general of her species predatory ancestry. "You're treating me like a child."

"That's obvious."

She crossed her arms and pursed, "No."

"You are tired, little one," Grievous reminded her, and secretly she knew. "It is clear."

Ahsoka dropped her arms immediately. Grievous watched her struggle with herself, patiently watching her go frustrated, dreadful, then sullen. She looked to him and tried to speak, at the same time keeping her eyes from drooping. She was indeed tired.

"T-thank you. . . "She hissed under her breath.

Grievous cupped his right audio-receptor antenna, inching closer. "Pardon? I didn't quite catch that."

"Thank you!" she wailed.

"A little creativity wouldn't hurt either."

"Oh, come on—"

"I'm waiting," He hissed. And this time he glared at her ferociously.

Ahsoka gave up after that. She screamed.

"Thank you for all of your care and consideration of taking care of me, Grievous!"

Grievous smiled from under his mask. He massaged the right nub on top Ahsoka's head, her montral.

"Good, keep this up and I'll do this more often. And now I reward you."

Taking the now whimpering child, whom was now covering her face in utter shame, he placed her on the queen-sized bed, caressing down her bare shoulder as he sat next her. Her whimpers turned to soft trembled moans, till at last she stopped. Her breathing became more rhythmic and less hyperventilating. Finally, Ahsoka was sleeping.

Grievous removed himself from the bed, and then turned to take a gander at his progress.

Weak, unprotected, insignificant, and so easily corrupted this child was. And in this time of war, everything can be altered towards a darker outcome. All it took was a few warships, blasters, battledroids, and patience. Most of all patience. And that was what Grievous was doing now, being patient with his charge. Waiting for the dark outcome: for her to fall.

Grievous sat next to the bed-side, resting his mind until morning.