The blue planet of Anthan Prime, located in the Outer Rim of the galaxy, was home to the floating city of Spire, a popular vacation hub for the extremely rich. As a more extravagant alternative to the gas-mining Cloud City, the blue cloud formations created by the unpredictable planetary storms made for dazzling horizons that patrons were willing to pay exorbitant rates for. Spire's elegant architecture was a blend of smooth and sharp lines, having two disc-shaped levels with multiple sharp pinnacle resorts rising from the larger top level. There was nothing unpleasing with the city spectacle, and the vacationers knew it.

However, this was not a vacation locale for the Keeper; to him, it was home. Located on the equator of the larger upper-level disc, his residence had a perfect view of the atmospheric wonders. Many of the wealthy preferred the penthouse suites of the resorts, but the Keeper's unique hobbies required more space than the pinnacle tips provided. His personal landing pad was large enough to accommodate a dozen state-of-the-art black T-85 X-Wings for his men, a suitable defense to any that would try to run off with one of his collections.

Currently, he walked on his two thick legs with a satisfied strut through his massive hangar. Two dozen armed lackeys guarded the open hangar bay that led to the landing pad, and another dozen were peppered throughout the interior. IG-88 and the long-haired Zabrak followed close behind. Antique ships lined the walls from front to back, having been carefully detailed to look pristine in the blue artificial light. He stopped to look at a T-65B X-Wing starfighter from the First Galactic Civil War and gloated to himself with his wide toothless smile. Sitting next to it, a same-era TIE/LN starfighter slept. Added to that, the great hall housed multiple Clone War ships such as the Delta-6 Sprite-class starfighter, the Eta-2 Actis-class interceptor, and even a few Vulture droids. In all, he had over a hundred antique ships in his collection, but as with most obsessions, his appetite was not satiated.

He hiccoughed as he strode to an empty space; the dull grey floor was a stark contrast to ships on either side. It was hollow, devoid, barren; and the Keeper despised it. He closed his black eyes and imagined the Millennium Falcon filling the vacancy, as his wide mouth narrowed to a frown. Then his thoughts turned to the clone girl.

He turned to IG-88 and the Zabrak and with a subtle and low pitched voice said, "Cahil, Eighty-Eight, I would like to talk to the clone-prime."

...

Patch crouched in the dim light of a windowless and red colored room. There was a bench to sit on, but Patch sat on the floor, her head resting on her forearms, which rested on her knees. It had been hours since anyone had visited her, and that was just to give her the daily meal of grain paste and water. She did not cry like most children would but remained silent and observant. She listened carefully to the footsteps outside the door and tried to guess who they were, how often they came and if there was any pattern. She had checked and double-checked the room for any panels or free wires she could find that she might be able to loosen and manipulate. However, it was apparent that the Keeper had a use for a room desolate of anything and everything. It was a prison cell.

Patch, therefore simply sat, and listened. She could hear the door at the end of the hallway zip open and close, then six pairs of feet; one light-footed, one metallic, and one heavy-set. The steps approached and stalled at the front of her door. She listened as the control panel beeped as one of them entered a code, and then finally the door opened.

The Keeper's large body, fitted with a dark-brown tailored suit, filled the frame of the door. The high collar of his suit rose up under his dewlap, and his sleeves extended down to his wrists.

"I hope you are comfortable-hic," the Keeper commented as he entered the room. "This room can be a little stuffy."

Patch desired to remain aloof like Boba, but could not help but speak. "I'm surprised you fit in here."

The Keeper's wide grin vanished. "Cahil, grab the clone-prime," he ordered the horned Zabrak and left the room.

Patch's hands were bound behind her, and she was prodded out of the room and down the hall. After a few minutes of following behind the Keeper down the corridors of his mansion, they arrived at a large set of double doors.

Here the Keeper addressed Patch while entering a code to open the door. "I wanted-hic-to show you this. And I hope it will make an impression on you."

Patch looked confused that he would want to impress her at all. "Whatever," she replied.

"Oh. I'm sure you will not be ambivalent about this room," the Keeper replied.

The double doors slid slowly away as they retreated into the frame on either side, to reveal a pitch-black room that illuminated as the Keeper stepped into it.

It was a large circular room with a prominent pearl desk and chair set in the middle. The ground was carpeted with a mahogany red velvet flooring. Patch noticed that other than the desk, the room was very sparsely furnished, and nothing else was very provocative. Then she saw the walls. Hanging from them were a dozen large dark brown quadrate sculptures, each portraying a body of someone in exquisite pain. She looked at them in horror and wondered why anyone would have such art on display.

"Ah, what do you think?" the Keeper asked. "I just can't help but show these off, especially-hic-to someone like you."

"They're horrible," Patch replied. "You're sick."

The Keeper laughed. "You've seen my collection in the hangar. Fantastic, isn't it? But, you know, I've been collecting ships for over thirty years now, and it just doesn't give me the same thrill as it used to." He hiccupped again and walked over to look closer at the two center pieces. Cahil forced Patch to follow, and IG-88 stayed by the door.

"See these two," he gestured to them as if admiring art. One was a man, his hands behind his back as if bound. His hair was pulled back, and a full beard ornamented the curve of his chin. His eyes were covered with a blast shield. The other was a female Twi'lek with a flight cap; her arms were behind her in the same fashion as the man. Both their faces were filled with anguish as their mouths grimaced and their eyes were clenched shut.

"These were my first. They have been displayed here for twenty years now. Beautiful." He hiccoughed again, then took a deep breath as his smile overtook his face. "It wasn't easy, though. This one here-hic." He pointed to the man. "He was a Jedi, Kanan Jarrus. . . not his real name. He was quite tight-lipped about that name. This was his." He patted a lightsaber that hung on his hip next to a small blaster pistol.

Patch's eyes widened as she began to understand what the Keeper was saying.

"And her." He pointed to the Twi-lek female. "If it wasn't for her, I don't think I ever would have gotten him-hic. She was the bait, you see. Apparently, they had an affection for each other." He stared deeply into the immovable and graceful face of the Twi'lek. "Hera Syndulla, the heroine of the Republic. Even in agony, she is beautiful, don't you think?"

"Those," Patch swallowed hard. "Those are real people?"

The Keeper opened his mouth wide in a mammoth laugh, the cacophony of his roar bouncing off the walls. His hiccoughs broke his sputtering laugh as he tried to speak. "What did you think-hic? These were statues-hic? No-hic-they are carbonite! Only one of them died in the process; the rest are in hibernation."

Patch looked at the twelve of them hanging lifeless and frozen. A chill of fear gripped her, but she remained still.

"That one's a general." He pointed to the next down the line. "That one-a Resistance pilot. All of them- hic- history makers-hic-and antiques-hic-and collectables!" He waved his arms toward the rest, then refocused on the two in the center. "Can you believe it-hic? I've had those two on display for years before I even thought of collecting men. And now-hic-after collecting the rest for three years I have added ten more. I only wish I had thought of it for Terrah."

The evil words hung in the air as Patch processed what they meant. She furrowed her brow and hoped what she was thinking was not true.

"You killed my mother," Patch finally accused.

The Keeper put his hands behind his back. His face grew stern and business like. "No, Prime, I did not kill your mother. Eighty-eight did, and I rewarded him handsomely for it. Though it would have been more if he had gotten Boba Fett, too."

IG-88 stood by the door as if lifeless, except for his red eye that rotated occasionally.

"Why," Patch asked in almost a whisper.

The Keeper bent down to look directly at Patch, his black eyes piercing her, and his hot breath warming her face. "Because Terrah Otlell would not stay loyal to me. You are proof of that." His mouth morphed into a grimace, and sharp yellow teeth emerged through the green gums. His hiccoughs ceased as his focus sharpened.

Patch's voice began to shake with the despair that moved inside her, and she struggled to give birth to her words. "Why. . . why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Prime, if Boba doesn't give me the Falcon, you will be hanging on my wall."

Her face fell, and she toiled to hold back her tears.

"Yes, that's it," the Keeper said, waving his fingers before her. "That's the face you will make when I freeze you. Beautiful!"

Patch averted her eyes from him toward the hanging Twi'lek woman. The woman's face was hopeless but majestic and courageous. She wondered if she would be that brave and whether she would be as graceful when the time came; because Patch was certain, Boba was not coming.

What! Kanan Jarrus and Hera Syndula in carbonite? Where is the rest of the Ghost crew? Check out my other fan fiction, Episode VIII Rise of the Dark Jedi, to see what Sabine Wren and Zeb Orellios have been up to.