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Chapter Text

You should never have left Vassek alone. Pirates—they were after your cargo, you presumed; your Nella 342 light freighter was no match for their advanced weaponry. You wondered what had brought them to your corner of the galaxy, struggling to input coordinates into your navicomputer, cannon fire rocking the aft of your ship—your shields could only take so much.

You considered their impropriety—a terrestrial planet located in the Wazta Sector, Vassek was a small blue-green world that boasted no uncommon resources. It was uninteresting to most, quite distant from the Koda Spur hyperspace route. So why were these marauders after you?

As the daughter of a simple farmer, you grew staple crops like grain to feed outlying neighbors—planets like Mijos and Lutrillia—far off the beaten path, in a stretch of the Outer Rim Territories that reached toward the Western Reaches.

You were tasked with going to market, willing to trade for supplies that were scarce back home. That, or you hoped to earn sufficient credits to purchase them instead—keeping just enough to buy fuel for the long trek back. Yet you had barely made it to the first of three orbiting satellites when the flagship of the Nuro pirates descended upon your freighter.

Though dependable and rugged, it had been discontinued. It was outdated and only boasted one blaster cannon, though you did not have a single crew member to spare. You were the ship’s sole occupant, doing everything in your power to break away from the tractor beam that held you firmly in place.

“Kark it all,” you spoke aloud, hastily programming your ship’s computer for your original destination—Ryoone—a planet along the Koda Spur whose dismal atmosphere was clouded by a permanent suspension of ash, making the growth of crops and vegetation almost impossible—your family’s grain was sorely needed there, you imagined.

Your comm blared; someone was trying to hail you—those damn raiders.

“Lower your shields—we’re coming aboard. Best play nice, or we won’t be,” came the voice of a surly male.

“Leave me alone! I have nothing of value!” Though not totally a lie, not everyone would consider grain a top commodity.

“She sounds pretty,” you heard another pirate say. It caused you to cringe, your imagination running away with you, knowing what these types were known for—none of it good.

“Quiet!” the first man demanded of the other. Then his voice came back to the line, sugar sweet. “Now, dearie, don’t be daft—we’ll be the ones decidin’ that.”

“Kark off!” you shouted back, disconnecting the comm. Having finished inputting your coords, you pulled back on the lever that would activate the freighter’s hyperdrive, hoping the pushback of the engines would break the tractor beam and set you free. Just as the warp drive began to fire and you tore away, a barrage of lasers took it out, causing you to careen off course.

“Shit, shit, shit!” you cursed as the Nella 342 spun out of control. You grappled at the yoke; the blast had taken out the remainder of your shields.

Prevented from entering lightspeed at the last millisecond, you realized you were caught by the gravitational pull of Vassek 3—a moon enshrouded in perpetual mist. There were rumors of monsters living there, men half made of metal—the pirates did not follow once they realized where your ship would fall.

Alarms blared, and the lights of your console flashed erratically as you tried and failed to activate the ion engines. Your ship’s repulsors were dead, short-circuited in a chain reaction, one part of your starship exploding after another.

There was nothing left to do. You strapped yourself into the cockpit, fastening your body to the pilot’s chair. Fear coursed through your veins. You fought desperately to steady your breath, determined not to hyperventilate, silently wishing you were safe at home on solid ground—but fate had other plans.

You plummeted toward rough terrain, breaking atmo. You braced for an inevitable impact. You offered a prayer to your gods and shut your eyes, catching a glimpse of the moon’s rocky landscape—there was nothing to cushion the crash.

Tears trickled down your cheeks as you prepared to die, wondering if anyone would ever find your body.

---

Magnetic talons gripped bare rock, the electrostaff of an IG-100 MagnaGuard connecting with pure plasma in an impressive display that bore no witnesses. The fearsome general of the droid army parried the attack with a single swing of his duranium arm. There were seven styles of Jedi combat; Grievous was employing Makashi—the form he had first learned from Count Dooku—counterattacking with ferocity, his strikes quick and precise.

“Ha! This is child’s play!” he taunted, addressing his group of sparring partners—mechanical beings trained to his specifications. They were perfectly equipped to hone his skills, outfitted in Kaleesh capes bearing mumuu markings and matching headwear.

These MagnaGuards were a group of two, with another of the general’s combat droids flanking him from the rear—or attempting to—his powerful LX-44 robotic legs propelling him as if spring-loaded, the cyborg flying in an arc as he raised his saber above his head in a two-handed pose.

Sparks flew as the battle-hardened droids blocked each of Grievous’ deft blows, one of his artificial limbs withdrawing a second saber to ward off the IG-100 that continued to hound him from behind.

Then, a laugh—a cough. A dense fog rolled through the canyon, concealing the seven-foot cyborg in a layer of thick white mist as the light from his sabers went out.

All was silent, the combat droids on high alert as their glowing red photoreceptors scanned their surroundings, deep robotic voices echoing throughout the mountainous terrain as they communicated with one another in an audible form of droid language. These models were capable of fending off Jedi, loyal only to their primary directive—which, at this moment, was to defeat their master—even if it meant losing their heads.

Decorated with scorch marks and dents, they were not permitted to repair their damage—if they fell to Grievous here, if they were marred, so they would remain.

Though they could not feel fear, they felt the general’s reptilian eyes staring at them through a well-hidden armorplast face mask, its shape resembling his species. He had once been a frightful warlord, though some might argue he was now even more terrifying—trading his organic parts for cybernetic ones, with only a few organs remaining: lungs, liver, and a cold, still-beating heart.

There was no sound but the wind and the buzz of their servos, their master having visibly vanished. One of their ilk probed the fog, the point of his shock staff slicing through nothing but thin air.

Then came a disembodied voice: “Surely, that is not the best you can do!”

A shadow, a series of swift, exacting movements—one MagnaGuard nearly lost an arm; another yelped in surprise.

“Ha ha ha!” came Grievous’ monotone cackle, two limbs breaking apart—electronically driven—splitting in half by a dislocation of his shoulders. Each hand had opposable thumbs and articulated fingers. They all now grappled lightsabers, his wrists maneuvering in a tightly controlled spin.

The IG-100s prepared themselves, righting their weapons and facing their unrelenting adversary head-on. But now he was distracted, his violent helicoptering coming to a halt as he sheathed his sabers, black slit pupils focusing on something above him as he spoke aloud: “End session.”

The MagnaGuards released their defensive stance, waiting neither patiently nor impatiently for orders, but simply existing—their eyes drifting upward as all four beings present watched what appeared to be a starship descend, engulfed in flames and trailed by smoke.

There was a sound of grinding metal, a reverberation that echoed throughout the valley. For a moment, Grievous did not move.

No explosion came. The general listened, hearing only the faint crackle of flames in the distance. His immediate assumption was that there were no survivors, but considering his home rarely received visitors, he was curious as to who—or what—might be among the wreckage.

“Guards,” he began in a grating, gravelly voice, “come with me.”

---

You were pinned, your body jammed between twisted shards of durasteel and the remains of your communications console. Something did not feel right—in fact, you oddly felt nothing at all.

Your eyes fluttered open; unbeknownst to you, your body had gone into shock, a part of your pilot’s seat having lodged itself in your belly—the base bolting it down had been torn clean from its root. Though your hands shook, you began to feel around, the mist from outside the ship having breached through the cracks in your hull.

Then, you looked down. It was something you should not have done—panic overtook you as your heart began to race, seeing the protrusion jutting out from your gut. You scrambled to press the rescue beacon on the console next to you, unsure if it would even work, electric wires sizzling and sparking so near your face you had to close your eyes again, albeit temporarily.

“Oh, God,” you whined, unable to control the flood of tears welling in your eyes. You attempted to move your legs, but whatever was on top of them was much too weighty—where would you even go? What would you do? Vassek 3 was a barren moon, besides its fabled monsters.

You thought you heard a noise—the crunch of footsteps over rock and gravel. They were much too heavy. Inhuman. And there was more than one set.

Your eyes widened as a towering shadow took shape, rising up from the fog just outside your cracked viewport. Metal clanked against metal once whatever it was entered the remains of your freighter’s cargo bay—red pinpricks of light seared through the dark, visible through the door of your cockpit, torn from its hinges and lying on its side.

Droidspeak—you were sure of it. These were droids—large ones—with sinister photoreceptors and billowing capes.

You held your breath, though it hurt.

A voice, rasping and mechanical, tore through the silence.

“What do we have here?” it asked in a curious lilt.

You would have screamed, but the sound caught in your throat. What you were beholden to witness was one of the most terrifying things you had ever seen.

A figure pushed past the others and stood before you—the caricature of a man, more than seven feet tall. Its limbs were long and lithe, made of metal and alloy. Its legs were the same, feet spread apart in a shape that resembled claws. But its face was the most horrific thing of all—flesh and blood covered by a mask and helmet reminiscent of some otherworldly creature, the likes of which you had never laid eyes on.

Its slit pupils regarded you, though there was something about it—him—that gave you the smallest bit of comfort. He was not a droid like the others; he was a living, breathing, organic being. His lungs expanded and contracted as the creature coughed, having crouched down on one knee before you—studying you, perhaps, and the predicament you had found yourself in.

“Please—” you begged, your hand gripping the bar extending from your belly. You felt faint, certain you were losing too much blood. A terrifying thought crept in: if you closed your eyes again, would they ever reopen?

The last thing you witnessed as you succumbed to unconsciousness was the tilt of this being—this monster’s head. You felt what you thought was a sharp talon caress the soft flesh of your cheek.

Grievous saw himself reflected in you, if only for a moment—the victim of an error, a horrible crash—left for dead until some form of help had arrived. It was what had led him to this life, this form. His piercing gaze observed the pain on your face; he felt it vicariously, its mark etched into your features.

And you were comely, he thought. Beautiful despite your anguish, despite being clothed in the garments of a pauper.

He decided he would fix this—you—by affording you the same opportunity he had once been given. Not because it was right, but because he was selfish. No one needed to know—not even the count.

What harm would it do, having a little company for once? Someone who would otherwise die and be discarded?

In a single, fleeting moment, Grievous made his choice—it was a split-second decision, the general not thinking of the repercussions or the many possible outcomes that might come to pass.

There was no one present to challenge him, least of all his guards.

As you began to fade away, he spoke once more. Fear had left you. His voice was both calm and commanding— and possibly the last thing you would ever hear.

“Get out of my way! I am going to cut her loose.”

Chapter Text

Grievous did not trust his MagnaGuards for this, carrying you himself, bridal style. Your weight was slight compared to his immeasurable strength, like lifting a child, or a bird—albeit one that was broken and flightless.

He had cut the metal rod sticking out from your belly with an artful swipe of a stolen lightsaber, leaving the exposed shard buried in your guts with the knowledge that you would bleed out should he remove it. Additionally, the debris that had fallen on top of your legs, he had displaced, one of them being mangled below the knee.

The Kaleesh could be careful, his powerful, cybernetic legs carrying him down, up, and across the rocky, unforgiving surface of Vassek 3. He had chosen this place for a reason: no one dared to attempt to infiltrate his lair.

Though he did not speak of it to those bodyguards that surrounded him, he knew your chances of survival were slim. And it was not as if they would care, or that he should care, though he felt a connection to you—however small—knowing what it was like to flirt with death, barely clinging to life by a single thread.

Whether it was kindness or necessity—a stroke of luck or a bid for total control—Grievous was still here, living, breathing—though often with difficulty—a testament to his warrior spirit. And no one—no one—would ever take that away from him.

Not now, not when he was so much more a machine than man, able to repair himself easily, to come back from what would be an early grave for others—improvements, modifications bestowed upon him by Separatist cybernetic experts and Geonosian biotechnicians under the orders of Count Dooku—giving him access to capabilities only dreamt of by those of mere flesh and blood, those who were simply mortal.

Though to most, he was not a thing of dreams but of nightmares—a creature to haunt your memories, his name inspiring fear in the hearts of all who laid their eyes on him. It was what he wanted, what he deserved—and the Jedi would pay; never would their slight against him and his people be forgotten.

Perhaps you would be no different. So long had it been since he had interacted with anyone who was not out to give him orders, who was not out to conquer or destroy him. Besides the inferior, useless battle droids assigned to his command, he was forced to be content caring for Gor or dealing with his nettlesome doctor.

That was where he was currently headed, and regardless of the outcome, he knew you would be forever changed, whether you wished to accept it or not. This time, he was in the pilot’s seat, though he knew nothing about you or where you had come from.

Your clothing was that of a commoner; it was obvious you were not wealthy, nor were you someone from a prominent household—not like the Count of House Serenno, the Head of State of the Confederacy of Independent Systems…

And what would Dooku have to say to this? General Grievous, the Supreme Martial Commander of the Separatist Droid Army, taking in a lowly human woman to his den.

The Kaleesh came to find he did not care. What he did in the privacy of his own residence was none of the count’s business! Barring this internal argument, he had already made his decision. You would live—he would make sure of it, if only out of spite.

“We have arrived,” Grievous said gruffly—not that you could hear him. The three IG-100s strolling to either side of him turned their heads in unison, as if he was addressing them, as if they did not know their current whereabouts already.

“Open the door,” the Kaleesh commanded. The nearest of the MagnaGuards pressed a centrally located block toward the bottom of the monumental structure that stood before them, its movement slow, the gateway parting incrementally until enough space was provided to allow the group to pass.

Grievous was greeted by a sound—his loyal roggwart waiting for him just beyond the entrance of his lair, snorts and growls accompanying the wagging of his forked tail and the waving of all four of his cybernetic limbs.

“Gor! Not now,” his master protested, pushing away the creature’s face from investigating your battered body. The horned beast whined. Though predatory, Gor submitted to one man only—the sentient before him, Grievous, waving a hand toward his nearest guard.

“Go—feed him, play with him,” the general ordered. The IG-100 unit turned without a word, coaxing the fanged monstrosity down the opposite end of the hall.

Grievous stopped to watch, though time was of the essence, and gave the last two MagnaGuards separate instructions: they were to return to their recharge stations and wait to be summoned should a need for them arise.

He took a moment to gaze down at you, asleep—or rather, unconscious—in his arms. You were pretty, like a flower, and just as delicate.

The warlord had spent little time around human women—or those incapable of fending for themselves. Even his beloved Ronderu lij Kummar had been a mighty warrior. All ten of his wives, lost to him back on Kalee, had been formidable and fierce.

Grievous lowered his head, bringing it close to your face. His reptilian eyes studied you as he brushed your nose—more out of curiosity about how it might feel than anything else—his integrated sensors allowing him to do so.

Soft, came his thoughts, wondering if he should do it again. Then, a voice called out to him—the doctor had spied him on the holofeed. His speech was more than abrasive to the ears; it was dry and insipid, his tone conveying immediate disapproval, though it mattered little to Grievous. He did not answer to him.

“Master, what are you doing? Who is that? What is going on? You were gone so long, I thought the MagnaGuards had bested you. I have spare parts waiting, just in case.”

“Fool!” Grievious grunted, “as if they could defeat me.” He paused, looking up toward a nearby camera, knowing the droid was watching from his place in the medbay. “It is a woman,” he said matter-of-factly. “I need you to repair her.”

“Re-repair?” EV-A4-D asked apprehensively. “Master, she is human. Humans are not—”

"You can and will fix her,” the general growled, beginning his trek toward the back of his lair, passing room after room filled with Kaleesh history, weapons, armor, and his most prized possessions—his trophies, earned in the heat of battle.

“You can’t be serious—you are serious,” A4-D complained. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do,” he stated blandly, leaving behind the surveillance equipment and his bird’s-eye view to retreat to his workstation, where he began making preparations for Grievous’ and your arrival.

What a bizarre request, he thought.

Though the general’s footsteps were loud, reverberating throughout the halls, you did not stir. The Kaleesh watched your chest rise and fall, though your breathing was shallow.

He made a sound of reproach and adjusted you in his arms. Then, his right shoulder dislocated itself so his cybernetic limb could split apart into two—he needed the extra hand to activate the secret door that granted him admittance into his control room, the most inaccessible part of his home, protected from intruders should anyone ever attempt to ambush him.

“Master, I hope you know this is highly irregular.”

Grievous made a sound of irritation, pushing past A4-D with your body held gingerly aloft. He was so tall that the doctor only came up to his midsection, yet A4-D behaved as if he were impervious to the general’s wrath.

“You will do as I say,” he concluded, moving you toward a surgical table.

“No, not yet—she will need the bacta tank before I am ready,” the droid interrupted. Grievous’ head swiveled toward him as he glared, but he nonetheless took his advice, carrying you to the tank that stood just off to his left.

“And don’t bother removing her clothes. It’s more to mitigate pain than anything else. We don’t want her wounds closing over the object.”

Grievous hesitated at the thought, coughing loudly before he continued his upward climb.

“Count Dooku commed while you were away,” A4-D informed him dourly. “I expect he wishes to hear from you as soon as possible.”

“The count can wait,” Grievous returned, not in any hurry to answer his beck and call.

A4-D inspected you, even as Grievous ascended the final stair of the tank’s entry platform. He knew this much, at least—how to connect a being to a rebreather, understanding that even if your lungs were damaged, you would still need oxygen.

“She is in bad shape, Master, I am not sure that I will be able to help her,” the droid said glumly.

“What did I tell you?!” Grievous bit back nastily, “you can and you will!”

A4-D was silent for a moment, his microprocessors calculating outcomes and trajectories, components needed, tools required for operating on human flesh—it was so… tender compared to that of what he was used to—even Kaleesh hide was tougher and more resilient.

“Internal bleeding, tissue damage, perforated organs... She will require a laparotomy, not to mention her right leg will most likely need to be amputated and replaced. And we’re going to have to remove that rod impaling her—sooner rather than later.”

Grievous did not speak, but stared, listening intently to the doctor’s assessment.

“I will need scalpels, forceps, scissors, retractors, and suction equipment. In addition, repli-limb prosthetic organs for her stomach, intestines, and quite possibly her liver.”

Grievous turned his eyes back toward you, using the support mechanism himself—a rather rudimentary pulley system that allowed your body to be lowered in through the tank’s top hatch.

“Then get them,” the Kaleesh answered harshly, watching as you were now fully submerged in bacta, A4-D shaking his head as he turned to putter off.

“It will cost you a small fortune, but whatever you say, Master.”

A low rumble began to unfurl deep in Grievous’ chest cavity, the general tempted to scold A4-D for being bold enough to challenge his decision, though the droid was saved from further insults by the chime of his communications console coming from the room next door.

“That would be Dooku,” he heard the doctor say before he disappeared around the corner, Grievous not in the least bit amused.

Despite this, Grievous stomped his way forward, closing the door to the surgical chambers behind him. He hacked a cough, then took a seat, finding himself face to face with the wavering, faint blue outline of none other than the Count of House Serenno himself.

“Greetings, my lord,” the general said, knowing when to pay the count his due respects. After all, he did not wish to come off as suspicious—acting as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, deciding to keep quiet about the last hour’s activities.

“General, I have new orders. You are to capture Outpost 716. It is a well-defended command center used by the Republic. With it out of the way, our enemy’s supply chain will be broken, giving us the upperhand.”

“I understand,” came the droid general’s terse reply.

“You will leave immediately.”

Grievous felt the need to protest but withheld. “As you wish, my lord.”

Dooku’s image faded away into nothingness as the call ended, the Kaleesh venturing back toward the medbay. A4-D was walking hurriedly between cabinets, withdrawing various tools and implements, a datapad held in the opposing hand.

“The order has been placed—rush shipping, of course. I’m using the same supplier that manufactured your gut-sack—BioTech Industries. We could cover her modifications with synthflesh, but we can put a hold on that for now. The most important thing is that she makes it through the night.”

“See that she does,” Grievous snapped, turning from his faithful doctor to make good on his promise to the count.

“Master, are you leaving?”

“I will return shortly. Do not fail me, Doctor.”

“One question,” A4-D interjected. “What’s so special about this human? Where did she come from?”

“Her ship crashed. I found her like this.”

That was all the droid needed in the way of an explanation; he finally understood.

“I’ll do my best,” came his reply. “But no promises.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Grievous’ campaign had been less than fruitful. Although he was a master tactician, the Jedi guarding the outpost were clever. They, along with their army of clones, had bested him in combat—but whose fault was it? Dooku refused to give him anything but worthless battle droids to do his dirty work.

With the purpose of rubbing his shortcomings in his face, Dooku informed him that the job would go to Ventress—the count’s smug Sith assassin—threatening him with punishment should his next venture not make up for his previous mistakes. While Grievous preferred hand-to-hand combat and the element of surprise, he knew that Ventress would use subterfuge to win the day. It was not the general’s forte, though he respected the witch’s skill.

All he wanted was to rest. Though Grievous boasted mostly cybernetic parts, he was still partly comprised of organic tissue, including a brain that needed to recharge—and now was such a time.

Upon arriving back on Vassek 3, Grievous prepared to land, situating his Belbullab-22 starfighter just so in order to enter through a hidden pneumatic door. It was customized—Grievous had given it the name Soulless One—though behind his back, enemies of the general had taken to calling it something less flattering.

Popping the reinforced transparisteel dome, which slid back along its built-in hydraulic system, the general freed himself from the cramped cockpit and alighted on solid ground. Upon entering his foyer, his thoughts flew to you—what had happened, he wondered? Had his doctor managed to keep you from dying?

At that very moment, he heard something startling—something that rattled him down to his gut-sack. Perhaps it was because it was unexpected, but the sound of you screaming—the raw terror, the shrillness, the sheer volume of your voice—sent him barreling toward the source.

Just as he opened the door to his control room, he saw the doctor peek his head out into the hall. Your temporary quarters were just beyond the medbay, in an observation room much like those found in state-of-the-art infirmaries, equipped with everything one might need to preserve a life.

“What is happening?!” the Kaleesh demanded. The doctor did not have an answer, rushing forward as quickly as his awkward legs could carry him.

“I do not know, Master. I haven’t heard a peep out of her until now.”

“Was the surgery successful?” he asked, heavy footsteps clanking along behind him.

“Yes! As… far as I am aware.”

 “What do you mean? Have you not checked on her progress?”

“In my defense, I assumed she was still asleep.”

Grievous made a sound of indignation, pushing past EV-A4-D to enter your chamber. What he saw did not sit well, even though the Kaleesh was known for things far worse than this.

“Why is she restrained?” was his first question, noticing the cuffs that bound your wrists. “Are you unable to handle a human woman on your own?” the general taunted, not bothering to critically consider the doctor’s reasoning.

Grievous’ droid-servant had taken his time waddling in behind his master. He noticed you had stopped screaming—albeit for the moment—because as soon as your brain processed what it was you were seeing, you started right back up again, this time accompanied by the violent tugging of your bindings.

“Oh dear,” A4-D stated lamely.

“Stop this—stop your yelling!” Grievous shouted. Although you did as you were told, your screams were replaced with sobs, your fragile body—now outfitted with cybernetic implants—trembling like a barve being taken to slaughter.

“Release her,” Grievous commanded. The doctor swiveled his head toward the Kaleesh.

“I do not think that is a good idea, Master.”

“Do it!” he bellowed, followed by a bout of coughing.

The droid shook its oblong head, then walked forward. The pulse beat sensor's incessant beeping quickened—more so than before.

“Please remain calm,” your “doctor” instructed, as if saying that to you would help. Then he glanced behind himself, back toward the general.

“Are you sure? She may—”

“—I will not repeat myself!”

The droid unlocked first one wrist, then the other, wandering around to the other side of the bed to do so. He did not have long to wait—you tumbled right down onto the floor.

“I was going to say, ‘hurt herself,’” the droid informed him.

In your frenzied state, you had felt the need to run, forgetting the absence of your leg. Your only thought was to escape—but to where, you had no idea. You moved to stand, only to crumble, releasing a yelp of pain as you continued to cry.

“Why didn’t you say so?!” Grievous growled, forced to endure another round of coughing. A4-D stared at him, lacking the capacity to glare.

“I did try to warn you.”

“And why haven’t you replaced her missing limb with a superior version?”

Despite being nearly scared out of your wits and completely overwhelmed, you couldn’t help but listen in on their conversation—a new leg?

“Things like this take time, Master. I am working on a prototype that will fit her measurements,” the droid replied.

The tall, ferocious monstrosity with talons for feet stepped toward you without warning. You had been examining yourself, tears clouding your eyes as you gingerly touched the wires nestled within the cavity that used to be your abdomen. Oddly enough, you felt something—your body still responded to your touch. To top it off, there was no pain—something you least expected.

Upon seeing him approach, you hurriedly crawled backward on your palms, dragging the lower half of your body behind you. Loose wires were still attached—an IV of some sort, monitoring equipment—and you were stripped down to nothing but your underwear.

You wanted to scream again, but were afraid of what might happen, watching as the creature bent down to bring himself to eye level with you on the ground.

“What have you done to me?” you whispered, your cheeks wet and glistening—tear-stained.

The cyborg stared at you for a long moment.

“I have done nothing.”

Without another word, he scooped you up into his arms.

You panicked once more, despite noticing he had been quite gentle. You beat your hands against his armored ribs, which in turn caused you pain—but you ignored it, thrashing about like an angry tooka. Your fight-or-flight response had decided that now was the time to try your luck with violence, however ridiculous the idea.

“Leave me alone!” you screeched.

“You still stop,” your captor said. It only made you fight back harder. You foolishly tried to escape for no other reason except animal instinct, but Grievous blocked your path with his towering duranium form.

“Go away, monster!” you seethed between clenched teeth.

Though he had been called many things over the years—and knew it to be true—this, for some reason, offended him. He had been kind enough to save your life, after all, and this is how you would repay him.

Grievous placed you back onto the bed. With a swirl of his cape and a low, guttural rumble of complaint, the Kaleesh stormed toward the door, turning to narrow his reptilian eyes at the droid who hovered by your bedside.

“Make her rest,” he ordered.

The door slid shut, leaving you alone with his intimidating droid—he had one too many arms for your taste, and you were at his mercy.

“Easily done,” came a cocky voice from behind you. You turned your head too quickly, nearly becoming dizzy—just in time to see a needle pierce your skin as the so-called “doctor” injected something into your neck.

“What—”

“—There, there,” the droid said in a patronizing tone. “This is for your own good. You’ll see.”

You tried and failed to stay upright, your body slowly giving way. You felt your eyes grow heavy before you sank back into the mattress, the droid fluffing up a pillow to place beneath your head.

“You're quite lucky. I don't know why my master has decided to keep you alive, though I can guess.”

You were suddenly paralyzed, unable to speak; you felt the droid gently moving you back into place, arranging your remaining limbs in a way he thought would be more comfortable.

“I wouldn't try his patience if I were you,” the doctor said offhandedly. “Grievous is not known for his forgiveness.”

“Grievous,” you thought to yourself as you succumbed to unconsciousness again. Who—or what—was he? How had you ended up here? And, more importantly, how were you going to leave?

Chapter Text

His was a one-track mind. Though lacking spare time to indulge, Grievous had secluded himself for the better part of a full rotation. He was observing previously recorded footage, deep in the throes of battle with the Jedi.

Taken from the integrated holotransceiver of a tactical unit, the surveillance uplink had been established through the droid-brain of one of his idiot battle bots—a B1, which had at some point lost its head. He was obsessively replaying the same scenes over and over, analyzing every step, every swipe of a lightsaber, every shot of blaster fire—searching for holes, cracks in his technique, in his response time, in his army.

Jedi General Mayanka Catrine was a formidable opponent, and her apprentice was highly skilled. Grievous thought they were lucky to have bested him, however, as there had been more clones at the command center than he had expected.

It was obvious that the Galactic Republic had stationed some of their best men at this particular outpost, as it served as a munitions depot for the entire military. Though Grievous was capable of regret, his hatred and vitriol for the two Jedi overshadowed any other emotion he might be feeling—even shame—Ventress having been summoned to tie up his loose ends.

But after so many long hours spent pouring over the same repetitious loops, his tactician’s mind began to wander. Though his body had changed—and so too had the man inside the armor—Grievous felt a disconnect between the creature on the screen and the one he had once been, long ago on Kalee.

Though satisfied with his current build, there was no shortage of enhancements to be made. Having the ability to identify his own flaws, the droid general could purge them and overcome deficiencies—unlike those with organic bodies, who were forced to endure weakness, maladies and ailments to excess.

Still, he often contemplated his own being—what he had become or been reduced to—caught between a once able-bodied, intelligent Kaleesh warrior, a fierce protector of his tribe, and something most found utterly horrifying and grotesque.

His was an existence of perseverance through grief and dominion over others. Nothing mattered but the destruction of his enemies—self-righteous in his crusade—failing to realize he had been reduced to a pawn, if only because he was promised limitless opportunities to face his loathed adversaries, the Jedi, head-on.

Alongside this, he had forgotten what flesh felt like—red, scaly skin like his, his memory jogged in the midst of a spontaneous rescue. Though not reptilian like his kind, you were human, and softer still, the cyborg wondering from whence you had fallen from the sky.

Something to be kept, held, observed, like a rare treasure he had found in his own backyard. You had been sent here, given to him—you were too weak, too frail to make it in the galaxy. And there was nothing about you worth his time, nothing so special about you to warrant his attention—your laughable attempt to insult him had been begrudgingly brushed off.

Sadly, you could not see nor recognize perfection standing right in front of you. And you—you were pathetic—delicate—but effectively beautiful because of it, even though you were not but a fragile human girl.

Grievous found this intriguing, seized by some sick urge to possess what he now considered to be his. And you owed him something. You owed him your life, because he had returned yours to you.

And why shouldn’t he keep you? Without him, you would be dead—he would remind you as often as you needed.

But would you be plagued by dysmorphia, unable to accept the minor changes to your physique? Or would you embrace them—even enjoy them, if not embracing your keeper himself?

It was true that your initial reaction to your cybernetic components—and to Grievous—had been less than favorable. He recalled waking up in the bacta tank, reduced to a gut-sack full of organs—his heart, lungs, brain and eyes. Only your entrails had been affected—that, and a leg, which was easily repairable compared to the work the doctor had already painstakingly completed.

How amusing, he thought, to have his own apprentice—someone to build from the ground up. To mold such a lowly specimen into a fierce warrior—could it be done? Would you be open to the idea, or would you fight him every step of the way?

Or would you serve him and his household? Would you bow to him, tend to the things the doctor did not have time for? Be content to remain here on Vassek 3, with him as your only company?

Either way, your debt would be repaid tenfold—especially considering your insolence. And he knew the Count—Lord Sidious as well—would disapprove of this pet project, this newly formed infatuation with something other than his work.

Their opinions meant nothing to him. He should be allowed his playthings—they had theirs. Grievous was one of them. It was only fair.

The general slammed his fist down on the holotable before him with a defiant roar, interrupting the feed—he was becoming agitated and needed a distraction.

Having inundated himself with ideas and straining his eyes to the point of exhaustion, Grievous stood. He had sat dormant for too long, failing to exercise or use his limbs—he needed to be ready for his next challenge, never knowing when Dooku would summon him into battle, and rarely with warning.

It was decided—he would visit his training hall, preferring to practice the Jedi art of Niman alone. If he ever encountered General Mayanka Catrine in combat again, he would be prepared to face her—and she would be destroyed.

---

You awoke slowly, blinking as your vision took its time to adjust. Whatever the doctor had given you had done its job, keeping you under for an ambiguous length of time.

You heard sounds—the shrill buzz of something electrical. You guessed it to be a tool of some kind and lifted your head to find the doctor bent over what remained of your right leg.

You gasped and sat up in bed.

The droid pulled back, withdrawing his many attachments from where he had been hunched over you, staring up at you and the expression of shock and concern written across your face.

“Not this again,” he said dryly. “I’m almost finished with you, so why don’t you stay put?”

The droid waved one of his four arms for emphasis, showing off a hypodermic needle and a syringe filled with a mysterious clear substance. You had no doubt he would sedate you again should he decide he needed to—that thought alone was enough to keep you still, and for the moment, quiet.

“Excellent,” he said in a bland tone. “It is good to see you are finally coming around—my master will be pleased.”

You watched as A4-D resituated himself. For the first time, you saw what it was he had been doing. You were still groggy, not fully aware of your surroundings, but it was hard to miss the metallic object being attached to your body just below the knee—an artificial limb. A new leg.

“Master?” you asked, only half cognizant of the words coming out of your mouth.

“Yes, the general.”

“General...”

“General Grievous?” A4-D replied snidely, as if you should know who that was.

You realized you weren’t restrained anymore—you were able to move about freely, were it not for the fact that the droid had asked you not to. You wiggled your fingers; you lifted your arm. They still worked and were in one piece, thankfully, though your eyes found their way back down to the part of you that wasn’t.

The droid sensed your anxiety—not to mention, he was equipped with medical implements capable of monitoring your vitals. It didn’t help that the pulse-beat sensor was giving away your BPM once more; you wanted to rip out all those extra cables, all those loose wires dangling from and out of you, as if you yourself were a droid plugged into a recharge station.

“I suppose it might look scary to someone like you,” the droid interceded, diverting you from your thoughts, “but believe me, these new synthetic organs will function better than the ones you were born with.”

You placed your hand over your abdomen; it was warm to the touch.

“You can still eat and drink—your replacements are all connected to your organic tissue through a synthnet neural interface. They have to be, with autonomous organs, since they aren’t consciously controlled and require nerve impulses.”

You glanced up, seemingly befuddled.

“In other words, your body is prompted to do what it is supposed to do. It doesn’t have a clue that anything is different. Lucky you.”

“How?” you whispered.

The droid shook his head; you felt something sharp, painful, as if an insect had stung you. You jumped despite yourself; the buzz had started up again. Whatever the droid was doing, you could feel it.

“No need to worry—that just means the sensory impulse line is functional.”

You looked at him apprehensively, sucking in a breath.

“Synthetic nerve endings—you will still have a sense of touch thanks to electronic impulses—they have been installed just beneath your cybernetics. All we have left to do is to attach the synthskin, though it is not necessary but more for aesthetic purposes.”

“It will look like a real leg?” you asked, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“And it will have comparable functionality to the real thing, if not better. My master has many enhancements in his own legs, such as reinforced knees.”

“What is he?” you asked suddenly. Then another question came—one that felt more important. “How did I get here? What happened to me?”

You grimaced as the droid pinched you again, though it seemed impossible to avoid.

“You mean you don’t remember?” A4-D asked, not bothering to look at you. “There was a crash. A rather nasty one, I’m told—my master brought you here. I didn’t think you would survive the operation.”

Another sensation came, though less unpleasant. The droid was tightening something; the feeling was odd, like screws being set into place.

“He’s a—well—he’s many things,” A4-D began, changing the subject back toward your original query. “He is Kaleesh, though his body is eighty percent duranium alloy and armorplast. He is a cyborg, like you.”

Your eyes widened, your lips parting in fear and surprise. You hadn’t thought about it that way yet—everything was still too fresh, too new.

“Don’t overreact,” the droid said casually, continuing his story. “Surely, you at least remember the war—the one happening between the Separatists and the Republic?” he asked.

“I … think so,” you said, still struggling to come back to your old self.

A4-D paused his work again, this time lifting his head, bright photoreceptors regarding you in silence.

Then he asked something else: “What is your name, human?”

You thought about it, your response despondent. “I... don’t know,” you admitted, having forgotten that too.

“Where did you come from?”

You racked your brain for answers. “I don’t know that, either.”

“Interesting,” came the droid-doctor’s response.

You stared down at the sheets, frowning. You had nothing else to say. You thought you should be more upset over this—you thought there must be some place out there for you, a home to return to. But where?

“The good news is, you are safe here with my master. He is the Supreme Martial Commander of the Separatist Droid Army and a powerful military general.” Then he snickered—if such a thing were possible coming from a droid. “Safe, unless you take his awful temper into consideration, that is.”

Your head shot back up. A4-D continued his meddling with your leg, as if he had said nothing out of the ordinary. You let his words drift away as you felt an odd tingling deep in your gut, your focus lost.

“There!” the droid exclaimed, stepping backward a few paces from the bed to take in his handiwork in its entirety. “Finished.”

Your hand returned to your belly, or what was left of it, plus whatever else had been meticulously installed inside you.

“Hm, are you hungry? You have been here three rotations. We can test your digestive system—your organic parts still need fuel, though you will have to limit the size of your meals; we have a small supply of food on hand, unless you prefer to take your nutrients intravenously.”

You said nothing. You did not know how to respond, though you did feel hungry, or at least you thought you did.

The droid sighed—another human quirk, as if annoyed by your indecisiveness. “I will bring you something… wait here.”

Wait.

Wait here.

You watched as the medical droid tottered off, leaving the room. You glanced down at your new leg; you should be able to stand now—you had two functional feet—a state-of-the-art prosthetic limb.

You looked toward the door—the one left standing ajar—then down at your lack of clothes. You were still in nothing but your undergarments, a simple elastic cloth strip covering your otherwise bare breasts.

You needed clothes—you needed to escape. You needed to get home, to remember your name.

But when would you have another chance? Would this droid always hover over you? Would you always be under surveillance until the moment you were allowed to leave? Would you be allowed to leave?

You stood, albeit shakily, and stumbled forward—so far, so good. Even if you didn’t get far, you had to try; if nothing else, it meant your sense of self-preservation had remained intact.

Chapter Text

Though your new limb was easy to control, it would take some getting used to. Time was not something you had in abundance, having escaped your room out from under the nose of your caretaker when he had told you to stay put. You had no idea what to expect; you had no idea where you were, only that the walls were drab, the lighting dim, and that everything matched everything else, making it monotonous and uniform.

Your brain was having a hard time comprehending any sort of pattern. This place, whatever it was, was labyrinthine; you had already come across too many locked rooms to count, your fingers slowly guiding you through the halls, your body clinging for fear of falling, though you could feel everything—every footstep, the duracrete beneath your bare feet. It did not matter that one was composed of metal alloy—it was as sensitive as the one made of flesh and blood.

It was miraculous—truly fascinating—though you had no idle moment to contemplate its significance. Your mission was to escape this dismal catacomb—this place that felt like a tomb—as soon as possible.

You noted cameras in the corners of the walls. They were set onto stalks and looked like eyeballs, able to turn this way and that on their axis. You wondered if you were being watched—if anyone sat and monitored those cameras. How long would it be before you were caught and dragged away back toward your room, or someplace worse?

Your ears perked as you heard a sound in the distance, down some dark, caliginous corridor to your left. It sent shivers down your spine; it was unlike anything you had heard before. Perhaps there were worse things here than the droid—worse things than even Grievous—though for however frightening he was, he had given the order to save your life.

And for what purpose? What were you to him? If this Grievous was such a powerful, terrifying general—a notorious commander of a vast army—then why would he choose to save you, a girl who could not even remember her own name?

And why was that? The droid had mentioned a crash. You needed to go there, to see it for yourself, in hopes that there would be some clue among the wreckage to shed light on your identity. It made perfect sense that it should be your destination; never mind that you were not wearing clothes. Never mind that you had no idea where you were, or even what planet you were on, hoping against hope that there would be answers waiting for you, should you know where to look.

Currently, you did not, though it would not stop you from trying, continuing your somewhat aimless, slow trek down a hall that never seemed to end.

What if it didn’t? What if this hallway simply went on forever? What if you got lost, unable to find your way out, or back? In a place like this, it was hard not to let your mind play tricks on you; it was difficult not to let your imagination run away, especially knowing that at any minute you might run into your mysterious benefactor—the one who had so graciously donated your synthetic organs to keep you alive without anything in return.

Should you stay long enough to thank him?

You had called him a monster, though you had been terrified. It was no laughing matter to wake up on an operating table missing half your stomach and part of your intestines. Surely, he might understand… Surely, he would not hold a grudge against your behavior, having reacted poorly from fear, though he himself was not something one saw every day.

Though his appearance frightened you, you supposed it was something you could get used to—just like you would have to get used to no longer being entirely human. The droid had called you a cyborg; you felt it was preposterous. You were still you! You were still a woman, no matter if you had replacement parts or an artificial limb.

A thought crossed your mind—was that how he felt? Did this Grievous feel at home in his cyborg body? Was it a choice he had made, or was it necessary to preserve him, much like yourself? Did he liken himself to that of a droid, if he was the commander of an entire army made up of robotic men?

You would not ponder for long, having come to what seemed to be a dead end, though the room was circular. You began to feel along the walls, looking for grooves in the stonework, or for anything at all.

You pressed something; a door began to open, having been perfectly set into the wall so as to appear entirely blank. With a groan and a pop it slid right open. You hesitated, wondering if you should go inside.

But there would be no grand adventure for you. Instead of going in, you watched in horror as something came out—something large and black, sporting multiple limbs like every other remotely sentient thing in this accursed place.

With horrified, wide eyes, you gazed at its hideous form as it emerged. The creature had a head the size of a small landspeeder, its mouth as sprawling as the mountains, with more than two dozen teeth stretching from one side to the other—its maw a dark, bottomless chasm as it let out an ear-splitting roar.

You felt as if your heart stopped, frozen solid to the ground beneath your feet. If the teeth weren’t bad enough, the beast had to be at least twelve feet tall. It had horns sprouting from its crown, long claws, and a tail that was doubly forked.

You pissed yourself—quite literally—your mouth falling open, though no sound came out. Slowly, unsteadily, you backed toward the way you had come, though you were sure this thing was predatory by nature, and that even though you wanted so badly to run—not knowing if you could—it would chase you down and kill you before you had time to blink.

“Oh, please, oh please,” you pleaded, repeating the phrase so as to try and calm yourself. It was not working, the intimidating monstrosity lowering its head as it sniffed you, investigating your scent.

You had no opportunity to feel embarrassed, even though urine had leaked down your legs and onto the floor. Sensing your fear, the beast shook its head, approaching you with a menacing growl.

You screamed bloody murder to the top of your lungs. It only riled the damn thing up, its hind foot lifting to slam down in anger as it prepared to charge.

Now would come the test—how fast could this new leg carry you? You could remain still no longer.

Unfortunately, any special effects would be mitigated by the fact that your birth leg could not keep up. Still, you would run, wondering if your life had been saved only to die here.

Though you would not know it, a conversation had occurred at the same moment you had wandered into the general’s empty foyer, his roggwart, Gor, having the pleasure of coming and going as he pleased throughout his lair. Luckily for you, EV-A4-D had noticed within minutes that you were missing, spying you on the holocams and informing his master that you were out exploring where you did not belong.

Irritated by the fact that you had disobeyed his droid and interrupted his training session with your shenanigans, Grievous assumed you were trying to escape. He was not sure how he felt about the idea of letting you leave, but if he ever did, it would be on his terms.

His assumption had been correct; A4-D had connected to the general’s personal comm. “Master, Gor has found her—or rather, she found Gor. She does not have much time before—”

“Where?”

“East of the front corridor.”

Grievous’ timing had been perfect—any later and you would have been made into a meal, the roggwart bearing down on you as you came to a fork in the hall.

You slammed right into the general’s chest.

“Gor! She is not food!” came a deep, bellowing voice.

You thought you had made contact with a wall, but it was the cyborg from before. You had only seen him twice—so intimidating was his presence—though now it brought you comfort as you clung to him, both your arms instinctively wrapping themselves around his metal form as far as they could reach.

Your entire body was quaking, breaking down into sobs. You hugged the metallic being before you, crying into a chest plate made of armorplast. He was hard—cold—to the touch, but you did not care. All that mattered was that he was here, and that he would—hopefully—protect you.

The creature called Gor had come to a halt, but so to had Grievous, his elliptic, reptilian eyes widening in both shock and surprise. With both his arms outstretched to either side of himself, he did not dare touch you—not yet—staring down at the top of your head before glancing back up, looking directly into the face of his pet.

The roggwart chuffed, then made a sound acquiescing to its master’s command. After giving an indignant screech for good measure, it lowered its head and turned to move away, trotting back in the direction from which it came.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you begged, practically delirious from fright. You squeezed this man—this thing—Grievous tighter, though you would not admit it felt slightly uncomfortable to do so.

If he had asked for what, you would have told him you were sorry for pissing on his floor, sorry for running away. You were sorry for getting into trouble, and sorry for calling him a monster—Grievous may as well have been a cuddly bantha in comparison to whatever that beast was.

The towering cyborg was at a loss for words. He said nothing, his body tense and rigid before he finally relaxed his posture. You felt something—he had placed a hand on top of your head. It was an odd gesture, and Grievous did not know why he had done it, only that he felt the need to touch your hair.

It was soft, like your flesh, but of a different texture. Never before had he had the pleasure of doing something like this. Human women were exotic to his species; they did not take them as wives or partners—they were admired from afar if seen at all.

And it had been so long since anyone—anything—had touched him outside the field of battle. Every bit of physical contact he received was meant to hurt and maim. This was wholly different, something he felt he remembered from so long ago: the act of being embraced. Of being trusted. Held.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, still overcome, still overwhelmed. “I don’t know where I am—don’t know who, or what—I was so scared,” you admitted, not knowing how the general might respond to you or to any of this, though finding his affection to be a solace.

A moment passed between you. You felt the Kaleesh’s six articulated fingers gently stroking your head down toward the back of your neck. It calmed you substantially, to the point it stopped your tears—instead of yelling at you this time, he had made a point to console you, or so you thought.

It was short-lived. The general jerked his hand away and stepped back from your arms. He felt appalled at himself for having received enjoyment from this, of all things, knowing that nothing could possibly come of it.

“You should be!” Grievous said accusatorily, “A4 told you to stay, yet you are out here, wandering, where you do not belong!”

You stood, dumbfounded, and could only nod. You wanted to cry again, though you moved to wipe at your eyes and cheeks instead.

You were so small, so… tender, breakable. You were practically naked, your body pleasing to the eyes, though he could not explain it. Grievous felt annoyed by all of it, though at the same time, he felt himself inexplicably drawn in.

Then his eyes drifted down to where you had soiled yourself. You were unclean and needed to bathe—another thing Grievous did not have to bother with—and you obviously would be needing a change of clothes. He knew he didn’t have anything on hand for you to wear, but he thought he knew where he might find something that could be of use.

“You wallow in your own filth,” Grievous snapped, forcing himself to push down a feeling that oddly resembled something like remorse.

You were still scared; you were shaking like a leaf in the wind, but you were not scared of him. At least the doctor had installed your new leg—though it was the cause of you being down here to begin with, nearly becoming a plaything for his roggwart.

Perhaps he should take pity on you. You would learn how to behave, in time.

“You will wait. The Doctor will come for you, and you will follow him.”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered, lowering your head. Grevious’ eyes flared; he had enjoyed that too much.

“Good,” the cyborg said; he turned from you and began to stalk away, hunched at the back.

“Wait!” you cried, tugging at the end of his cape before he had wandered off too far.

He spun halfway around; the Kaleesh’s eyes stared at you in wonder, though he said nothing. “Will it come back?” you asked, despondency lacing your tone.

“Gor will not bother you again,” Grievous said. You dropped the bit of fabric in your hand. He would not believe that you were pouting, his battered lungs choosing that moment to force him to cough an excessive amount. 

Worry struck you, but you stayed put; it was a foreign feeling, but somehow it felt right. You observed as the general turned his back on you once more, perturbed by your apparent concern, hastening his departure away from and out of your sight.

You remained in the hall, now abandoned and empty. You gazed around yourself, wondering when you might see the sun or the clouds again. You found you wished to follow him, to see where he was going—it would be a poor choice to act on the urge, considering what had just transpired.

You convinced yourself to be patient, waiting to be taken back to what you knew to be your quarters—at least for now—subduing the impulse to disobey, as you no longer felt scared of Grievous, but intrigued.

Perhaps you would be safe here after all.

Chapter Text

Grievous did not care for how he was feeling. It reminded him of weakness. He had been thrown off guard, and by something as pitiable as a human female.

Were you not afraid of him? Was he not terrifying to look upon? Did he not strike fear in your heart?

Why had you gone to him for comfort? Why had you touched him, embraced him? Why did you look concerned for his well-being?

And already you took liberties, having dared to place your hands upon his mantle, using it to capture his attention. He had obliterated sentients for less, yet you still lived, and now he was running errands for you as if he were the servant—it did not make sense.

He did not feel an obligation, but an urge—an unexplainable desire to be useful—to mitigate your discomfort, if only by a little.

Grievous was no stranger to pain, anger, hate… He felt these on a daily basis. He also did not care if he caused others pain, as more often than not, they deserved it. So why should he go out of his way to ensure your peace of mind when he had none? Your happiness, when he could not remember what that felt like?

He was once a great warrior, defending his home and his people from the Huk, the Jedi, and now he was a ruthless, cunning military general for the Separatists. Pain was the common denominator—more so his anger, grief—it controlled and consumed him, though your unheralded presence was a small reprieve he did not know he needed, nor would he admit that he was enthralled by you.

The cyborg knew where he was headed, though the rocky terrain of Vassek 3 did not make it easy; everything looked more or less the same. If he could not find what it was that he was looking for, he would have to employ the doctor by unconventional means, knowing that he might complain but caring little—only that he obeyed.

Grievous activated his comm. “Doctor, your patient is waiting for you in the hall. See to it that she bathes.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence, before the droid responded. “Am I to be her caretaker, Master? Should I also be her handmaiden?”

“If I order you to do so.”

“I do not like this, Master. She doesn’t belon—”

“—I do not care what you do or do not like,” Grievous growled, conversing with his droid while at the same time jumping hurdles, springing deftly over deep crags, and clinging to jagged edges of rock in order to farther advance toward his destination. “If I cannot procure something for her to wear from her downed ship, you will make something for her.”

“Make? Clothes? Me?”

Another irritated sound rumbled from the general’s vocabulator. “Yes.”

“Am I also a seamstress, Master?”

“You belong to me, droid, and I will use you as I see fit!” came the Kaleesh’s brusque reply.

“Very well, Master. I shall fetch your pet.”

The general said nothing else, though he abhorred the tone the medical droid had taken. He had ways of convincing him, should the need arise.

It was just as well that their brief conversation had ended—Grievous had come upon the remains of the crash site where he had left it, having no plans to extricate your ship from the mountainside, knowing that it would be claimed by Vassek in due time, eroded by the elements—wind and rain.

Into it he climbed, entering through a sizeable gash in the hull, Grievous’s head swiveling to the left and right as he appraised his surroundings. The ship was large enough to have not only a hold for cargo, but an area for cooking and relaxation, the cockpit clearly visible to his left through the door that had been torn from its hydraulics—where he had first found you.

A light caught his attention—a blinking diode, red in color. The general’s eyes narrowed; he shoved a pane of durasteel out of his way. It slammed against what remained of the controls to your hyperdrive as he lumbered forward, finding that your ship’s rescue beacon was still active.

Grievous did not appreciate unwanted visitors, suspecting that one day he might have some; you were a rare exception. The droid general withdrew his DT-57 Annihilator and shot your already damaged console into bits—smaller ones—his adroit fingers pushing past mangled metal to rip out a handful of colorful wires.

It did the job—no more blinking.

Satisfied, Grievous turned back toward the aft of your ship, stepping over debris whenever necessary. He followed the path past your small galley toward the cargo bay, gazing about at the overturned bins of grain that you had been on your way to sell.

“Hmm…”

Grievous was able to deduce your profession from this alone. He had been right that you were of common stock, though your job was an important one for those who wished to eat. He left your stores where they sat, rummaging through those containers that lay nearby; the grain would rot, returning to the earth.

Nothing—no clothes to speak of. He grumbled a sound of aggravation, then moved toward the only place left—your scant living quarters.

To do this, he had to force another door ajar, pushing it back with half his strength. It flew open, the cyborg jamming it into the recess of the wall.

He was presented with a bed big enough for one, a small dresser off to the side built into an alcove, and what appeared to be a closet—though with the power shut down, this too would not open unless forced by his hand.

Grievous did what needed to be done. On a hanger was a pair of formfitting pants and a singular top. Next to it, a cropped jacket and boots. He took these, then turned toward the cubby that had accompanying drawers.

The general hesitated, all six fingers of his right hand hovering near the top drawer’s handle; he could only imagine what was inside. Clearing his throat, Grievous finally pulled it open—it contained several sets of underwear.

The cyborg coughed, loudly, fighting to catch his breath. How ridiculous, he thought, to let this affect him so; he dipped his hand inside to withdraw all that he could carry.

With his mission accomplished, Grievous scuttled out, hurrying back toward his lair. He would be glad to have something to give you once you had finished removing the filth from your body, though he held onto his bundle awkwardly; he could not wait to rid himself of your undergarments, though these too were soft to the touch.

It would give him many disturbing thoughts to mull over on his way back—ones he had not had for what felt like eons. Thoughts he had no use for, though it was interesting to know he could still have them, despite everything. He had once been a virile male, after all—it was absurd that you should remind him.

And what would his enemies think if they saw him like this, skulking about with an armful of women’s clothing? What of the Count? Lord Sidious? Those infernal B1 droids that did not know when to keep their mouths shut? It only made him quicken his pace.

Though Grievous knew he was in no danger of being caught, the act in and of itself felt wrong for more than one reason. He was a warlord—a Supreme Martial Commander of an entire army! Yet here he was, pretending this was normal.

“Master, I cannot find her. She seems to have vacated the area,” came EV-A4-D’s voice, breaking Grievous’ train of thought.

“What do you mean?” the general asked bitingly, perplexed by this news.

“I mean, she is not where you said she would be.”

“Fool! Check the surveillance cameras!”

“Right away, Master,” the droid said laconically, “though it would seem this new pet of yours may require a leash.”

“She is not a pet! And I will do what I want with her! It is no concern of yours.”

The droid sighed, as if he were human. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You do not get paid at all! Be thankful I do not decommission you!”

“You need me, Master. You would not do that. Who would put you back together again once the Jedi are through with you?”

The Kaleesh went quiet—how dare A4-D rub that in his face!

Shortly thereafter, Grievous was attacked by a round of exaggerated coughing. Curse his lungs. Curse his infuriating shortcomings. “See to it that you find her before I get back!” he wheezed.

Insolent girl, Grievous thought. Insolent droid! His fortress was full of booby traps for the unsuspecting. If you had indeed found yourself in trouble, this time you were on your own.

Chapter Text

You had found yourself along a flagstone corridor, its halls more intricate in design than those you had previously wandered; lights flickered, casting ominous shadows. What you thought had been cameras turned out to be droids of some kind. You were being watched, you realized.

You had meant to go back the way you came, wanting to please Grievous in some capacity—wishing not to be a burden, but to show him you were capable—though this place was more confusing than you had originally thought.

More so, you were still not used to your new leg; your journey was slow. You continued to creep along the walls, keeping yourself steady.

You touched something that stood out from the rest of the pipework, something that had a distinct shape. The slightest amount of pressure caused it to trigger, opening a door. You stiffened in response, knowing what had happened last time.

Several heads swiveled toward you, the gatekeeper droids doing their duty, silently snitching on you to anyone who might be paying attention, observing from their seat at the controls. You waited with bated breath; there was no monstrous creature with sharp teeth. Against your better judgment, but not your curiosity, you peeked your head inside.

What you saw was a statue, its pose reminiscent of a soldier or a warrior of some kind, holding the decapitated head of a Skrilling in its outstretched hand. It had a sword in the other, its expression fierce, twin tusks protruding from its chin.

You drew closer to get a better look—it reminded you of someone.

This creature’s limbs were long and lithe, its nose flat. It wore vestments from head to toe, with bandages around its arms and legs.

The legs—they appeared to bend backward, just like your host’s. Its cape was just like the one he wore.

The eyes—they were the same, carved into vertical slits, though they bore no color. The only difference was in the hands, the hair—the representation of flesh and bone.

You gasped just as a voice called out to you from the open doorway.

“There you are,” EV-A4-D announced, tottering his way inside. “Snooping around where you don’t belong again, I see.”

You practically jumped out of your skin, turning on the ball of your foot. You nearly toppled over, though you steadied your balance by stretching out your arms.

“I—I—got lost,” you admitted. It was the truth.

“Mhm, yes, I can see that.” A4-D upturned his oblong cranium to gaze at the likeness of the general just behind you. “Impressive, wasn’t he?”

Your brain took a moment to comprehend his meaning. “Wh-who?” you asked, drawing a blank.

A4-D sighed as if he had his own set of lungs with which to breathe. “The general.”

You glanced back over your shoulder to the statue, scanning it from head to toe. “He looks so different now…” you trailed off. “What happened to him?”

You refaced the medical droid, anticipating he would not bother to answer your question, though he surprised you, deigning to give you more insight into just who this Grievous was.

“Why don’t I show you?” came his reply.

The droid turned to walk away; you followed close behind.

A4-D led you farther down the hall; you gazed about yourself, taking in the strangeness of your surroundings.

Grievous had a particular style, if anything. Perhaps the way he chose to decorate had something to do with Kaleesh culture, though you could not be sure. Maybe he simply liked things to be dark and gloomy, likening his citadel to the rock around him, fitting into Vassek 3’s natural landscape—that had to be it.

Even so, you were ever curious, excited to learn more about the cyborg who had been compelled to save your life for no reason whatsoever, or so you had been told, A4 making it clear that your continued existence was a mite unusual.

The droid led you to the room next door. This one also held statues, though they were different from the others—Grievous was different. He appeared to be going through a transformation of some kind.

“You see, as I have said before, Master was a well-respected Kaleesh warrior, but that was all stripped away from him. While he chose a few modifications here and there, he was in a terrible crash—just like yours, but worse.”

“Worse?” you asked, gazing up, studying the stone figure before you—his arms and legs were no longer his own, his face covered by a bone-white mask; it was fashioned with distinctive markings along its eyes.

“His life was miraculously saved, though he gave up eighty percent of his organic parts—I still wonder if he submitted to the changes, or if my Master had no other choice but to agree.”

You would not speak it out loud, but you had an epiphany in that moment—your cases were similar, yet different; Grievous probably related to you on some level. It was oddly endearing.

“By now, I am sure you can guess why you still remain alive—Master does not know that I am aware of his personal history. He says things sometimes. Complaints, mostly, when no one is around. But I—I can hear them. I monitor the cameras; the Y7 units keep me well-informed.  I know all my Master’s secrets…” the droid trailed off with a pompous air, as if he had accomplished some great achievement. Then, as if he were just remembering you were there, A4-D’s head pivoted in your direction.

“What kind of secrets?”

“Ha! As if I would tell you, human.”

You bit your bottom lip. “Not even a small one?”

The droid thought it over, then conceded. “Fine—well, for one, he hates those useless B1 droids Count Dooku has assigned under his command.”

“Count Dooku?”

“The Head of State for the Confederacy, but that’s beside the point.”

You blinked but said nothing.

“Part of the reason I think you are still among the living is because my Master is lonely.”

Your heart sped up; you could not place why you suddenly felt so melancholy. “Lonely?”

“Do you always repeat what others say to you?” he asked, annoyed.

“Sorry,” you whispered, lowering your head.

The droid sighed and waved off your apology. “I think he wishes he had someone to talk to, other than myself, of course.”

You felt a sense of excitement wash over you. The idea of Grievous rescuing you in hopes that you might be someone who could keep him company enticed you.

“Does he not have friends?” you asked.

EV-A4-D barked a laugh. You jumped back, having not expected that.

“Hardly. Grievous does not trust anyone,” the droid said, eyeing you.

“So then, why am I here?” You felt confused.

“You do not seem to be a threat. Remember your place, and you will do fine.”

You were tempted to ask, “My place?” but knew what the droid would say.

A4-D turned back towards the statues of his Master, holding his head up high off his shoulders. “He keeps these as a reminder of the things he has gone through. They are a testament to his strength, but also of the horrors… incomprehensible to most.”

The droid paused, looking you over. “Now, are you ready?”

You swallowed your spit. “Ready for what?”

“The general has requested that you bathe—and by the looks of it, you need to.”

“O-oh…” You weren’t sure if you should be insulted but found that the idea pleased you.  You had assumed he had meant something much, much worse. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“It doesn’t matter if you like it or not, it was at the request of Grievous, therefore it is mandatory.”

You said nothing but stared blankly. You wondered at your ability to keep taking orders should it come to things you had no desire to do—would they be thrust upon you without your say-so? Would Grievous or the droid physically coerce you or otherwise?

They were thoughts for another time, hopefully far off in the future, if they existed at all. For now, you were content to follow, to discover all you could about your host and his interesting life, however bizarre and untraditional—you wondered when you would get to see him again. He had run off so suddenly.

 ---

EV-A4-D had prepared a place for you to soak your weary bones, though you had the feeling he was somehow resentful of it. He was a curious droid; you did not know much about his make and model—he was sarcastic and perhaps even a bit sadistic.

He held no qualms about injecting you with drugs, whether he needed to or not, and seemed to take pleasure in vexing you. Not only that, but he was extremely selective with what he did or did not explain; you felt that withholding information from you gave him a sense of control and power; you wished that Grievous would hurry back, not quite understanding that he might be worse.

“Is it… OK to get my leg wet?” you asked, thinking the question sounded stupid in and of itself, although you did not want to inadvertently electrocute yourself.

“Is it—” the droid scoffed; you had almost made him laugh again. “Yes, it is OK to get your leg wet—I told you; its functionality is on par with the original. That includes the ability to be submerged in water.”

"And the rest of me?"

"Yes!"

Good to know, you thought, though you would not confirm so aloud.

“Once you have bathed, you will remain here. These are the guest quarters for human visitors. You no longer need to stay in the medbay and will only return there for upgrades or routine maintenance.”

You wanted to ask about what he meant—upgrades sounded scary, routine maintenance less so—but you focused on the fact that Grievous may or may not entertain other people from time to time.

“I thought you said he does not have friends.”

“I did not say that friends visit him.”

“Then who?”

“Colleagues, associates—it does not matter. Now, get undressed.”

You balked at the suggestion, but you had already been prancing about the castle in nothing but your underwear.

“Don’t look,” you said, though you supposed it did not matter—A4-D was a droid and likely did not care, nor was pleased by the sight of naked human beings.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the droid returned. “You have nothing I have not seen before. I used to supervise an entire droid unit on the planet Tauber. We cared for all types of patients, with all sorts of body parts.”

You took a breath and reached down to pull the band across your breasts up and off, tossing it onto the floor. “What happened? Why are you here now instead?”

“I was relieved from duty. Hospital staff did not agree with my methods.”

You were quiet; you wondered if you should be nervous, moving to slip your panties down off your thighs and toward your ankles so that you might step out of them.

“What methods, may I ask?”

“To operate on patients without administering painkillers—it was a sound way to save money. Those who cannot tolerate the pain are weak and most likely would not survive anyway. I was doing everyone a favor.”

You stiffened, staring at the droid with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Do not worry, Grievous would not permit me to operate on you without anesthesia.”

You wondered at that but were thankful.

“Now, get in,” the droid instructed. You moved to obey.

You started with the foot that was mechanical, curious to see if what the droid said was true. It, in fact, was—you sucked in a breath and clenched your teeth.

“Too hot, too hot!”

“Your body will adjust,” the droid insisted.

You withdrew and stood there, waiting for the water to cool down. “What will I wear once I am finished?” you asked, attempting to distract him.

“I do not know. I will have my Master answer that for you.”

His response caught you off guard. “Will he be here soon?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not I eliminate you for asking so many questions!”

You could not tell if he was joking, especially after that last story. You resolved to climb inside the tub, keeping your mouth good and shut for once.

“Much better,” A4-D remarked. “Now, stay put. I will be right back.”

You watched as the medical droid awkwardly waddled from the refresher, leaving you in silence and entirely alone. You took a breath and sat back in the tub, your thoughts drifting back to Grievous once more—you hoped he was not long. You trusted A4-D less and less as time wore on.

Chapter Text

The water, once it had cooled, felt good against your skin. You needed this—sinking into the tub to let your hair soak, though your gaze lingered on your feet. You wiggled your toes; you thought you heard a faint whirring sound coming from your prosthetic limb, but you could not be sure—it was so soft it was almost negligible.

How strange the last few days had been. Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined waking up on an operating table, your organs and right leg replaced with cybernetics, kept alive by a punctilious droid and the general of a standing army. Under any other circumstance, you would be dead. You thanked your lucky stars for a second chance at life, though you still had no idea what kind of life you had left behind.

Your synthetic organs were glowing just beneath the surface of the water. You hoped that was normal. So far, so good—nothing had yet short-circuited.

You wondered about the synthflesh A4-D had mentioned; seeing inside yourself unsettled you. You thought you might ask about it, but the doctor already seemed irritated, and you didn’t want to provoke him with more questions—though you had so many.

Instead, you were content to lie there. The droid had not yet returned, though he said he would only be a moment. Until he came back with something for you to wear—or even a towel—you assumed this was where you were meant to stay. Still, you longed for soap, something to scrub yourself with. You thought to ask about that, too.

Despite everything, the refresher itself was well maintained—clean, though neither of those who lived within this citadel had any use for it. It was meant for human guests, the droid had said—or at least for those who were sentient and required such facilities.

You speculated at how long you might be here, and if you were turned away, where you might go.

Remembering nothing had its drawbacks—more than just lost memories. One consequence was that you had no home, no family, even if they existed. Not knowing where to find them put you at a disadvantage.  Luckily, this Grievous seemed to be a kind soul, not knowing any better than what you had seen of him in action.

As the water began to chill, you felt the urge to climb out—if nothing else, you could drip-dry and crawl beneath the covers of that spacious bed you had seen upon entering the suite. Standing, you withdrew one leg and then the other, careful not to trip.

You turned toward the mirror; you had not seen yourself since your transformation. The idea made you nervous, knowing it would be like confronting your own mortality. Even so, you lifted your arm; you wiped the fog that had collected, clearing a space in which to study your reflection.

You were startled to the point you nearly screamed—General Grievous was standing right behind you, hovering near the open door.

You raised a hand to cover your mouth; the Kaleesh looked as if he might retreat, hunching his gangly form to appear less threatening, perhaps—it surprised you.

You spun around; the general seemed just as spooked, his reptilian eyes opening wide as he looked upon your naked flesh, a bundle of something held tightly in his arms.

“Clothes,” he said matter-of-factly, though his voice was rushed, its robotic, gravelly tone slightly higher in pitch than what you thought was normal.

“Your clothes,” he clarified, suddenly consumed by a bout of violent coughing.

Without thinking, you stepped forward toward the cyborg, Grievous towering above you even as he was stooped, unable to catch his breath; he had dropped what he said to be your garments onto the floor, along with a scattering of underwear.

You bent down, forgetting that you were naked, gathering those things he had brought you to set onto the counter. Grievous watched as you turned back around to place a hand directly onto his chest—you could feel each vibration pass through you, willing his lungs to calm.

Though you had no real power, soon the general’s terrible hacking downgraded to an unpleasant wheeze. His duranium form quaked with every gasping breath, though he did not shy away from your touch.

You found yourself staring into the Kaleesh’s hypnotic eyes, inspecting the withered skin that remained visible, not at all afraid as a moment of silence elapsed between you, the cyborg able to freely breathe once more.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, “for bringing me something to wear.”

The silence quickly became deafening.

Finally, you had to avert your eyes, so intense was his stare; you wondered if you should be wary.

Your gaze came to rest on a bit of something left exposed—right above the placement of your hand— peeking out from the gaps between alloyed ribs. They were organs—like yours—all gathered together in one place. They were arranged inside a sack, or a membrane of some kind.

Your lips parted in awe as you thought what you saw to be a pulsing, rhythmic movement—the beat of a heart.

Grievous did not respond to your gratitude, at least not verbally—you involuntarily shivered as the first two of six jointed fingers ran down the length of your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw toward your chin. You felt a delicate pinch; you blinked up at the general, so light was his touch.

“Do you have a name?” Grievous asked in his deeply resonant voice, those two digits winding downward to trail across your windpipe.

“Not one that I can remember.”

You kept still, fearless, facing him.

“Then what am I to call you?” he asked, bending low; the surface of his mask nearly brushed against your nose.

Standing there, gazing into his gleaming, golden eyes—being so close to his audio receptors, to his vocabulator—you tiptoed up and pressed a single kiss against the metal slots positioned in the center of his face.

The general’s eyes broadened to their utmost width.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” you returned.

Grievous maintained his silence, though you did not break eye contact this time, not like before. You wondered if you had overstepped, sitting back on your heels.

The next thing you knew, Grievous gathered your hand into his, removing it from where it was nestled against him, an opposable thumb coming to rest across the tops of your fingers as he drew you close.

You felt he was about to speak, to say something you wished to hear. You waited, feeling something warm and fuzzy forming in the center of your chest. If he had lips, you were sure that he would have placed a kiss along the back of it—

“—Well, I would call you crazy!” came A4-D’s obnoxiously snooty voice from the open doorway.

You gasped in surprise and pulled back; Grievous was overcome with anger, though it was not directed toward you. He turned to face his droid, marching straight up to A4-D, blocking his way, a low growl emanating from deep in his throat—or what remained of it.

The general shoved the droid all the way to the left and pushed past him, stomping his taloned feet exaggeratedly with every step. You could not tell if he felt embarrassed, or that he was upset the moment had been ruined, though instead of directly confronting the doctor, he chose to retreat with a billow of his cape, rushing out into the hall beyond your room.

A4-D staggered back inside; he was holding towels and a basket of something—it looked to be like soap, a wash cloth—all those things you needed to get clean.

“I do not know what you think you are doing, human, but if I were you, I would stop immediately.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” you claimed, moving to snatch a towel from his outstretched hand.

“A likely story.”

“We were just… talking,” you said, finding your cheeks to be warm, your blood having begun to rush toward them.

“I see my Master has brought you clothes. Excellent. That is one less thing I have to worry about.”

You stayed quiet, wrapping the towel around your body, thinking the droid had either perfect or terrible timing—it was unfair.

“A word of advice—do not start what you cannot finish. My Master is… sensitive. You are leading yourself down a dark path. I do not think you are ready.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, though you kept your tone even, no matter that you now felt heated. It was most likely in your best interest to hear what the doctor had to say.

“Be wary you do not become a part of his permanent collection,” the droid explained, though he did not elaborate beyond that.

“I am capable of handling myself,” you stated while absentmindedly drying yourself off. Though you spoke your words with confidence, you were not so sure—what exactly did he mean by that?

“I hope you are right.”

A4-D began to putter off, speaking casually to you now as he traversed the short path toward the entrance of the suite.

“You still have not eaten. I assume you are hungry. When you are ready, use the holoprojector by the bed to communicate with me. Otherwise, this is goodbye.”

Goodbye?

The droid paused before exiting completely.

“Oh. And do not go wandering the halls unsupervised at night. You will regret it.”

You stared after him, more confused than ever, though that was one thing you decidedly would take his advice on—never mind the rest.

Chapter Text

After you were left alone, you found yourself turning back toward the mirror. You gazed at your reflection, trying to remember anything about the face that looked back at you—what your name was.

You supposed you must have hit your head, or that the crash was so traumatic that, following surgery, your mind had drawn a blank. One day, surely, everything would come flooding back. It never occurred to you that this might be permanent, assuming it all chalked up to nearly dying before your time.

You touched your lips with two fingers, remembering the sensation of cold metal against warm skin.

Why had you done that?

It had been an expression of your gratitude—a way to say thank you—though the droid had gotten inside your head. A4-D had told you that Grievous was lonely, that he wanted or needed someone to talk to, that you were still alive for his entertainment, but you thought you had overstepped his boundaries.

Though, if so, why were you not dead? Why did he seem to enjoy touching you? Why had he gawked at your naked body if he felt no enjoyment upon seeing it? Why had he been so responsive to your kiss?

Should you apologize to him for your forwardness? Should you tell him you did not mean anything by it, though that was partially a lie?

You had a mind to go and find him, though the doctor had told you to stay put—there was no telling the things that may lurk in the halls—but could they be any worse than that creature, Gor?

You sighed, not knowing what to do.

Heading out of the refresher, you spent far too long staring at the clothes you had laid out on the bed—removed from off the counter—wondering at the particular style, how comfortable they were. It was something you must have chosen yourself, the boots included—which rested on the floor—trying to remember ever wearing them before now, where you had gotten them—what that smell was.

You lifted the cropped jacket up toward your face. You inhaled sharply through your nose. It had an earthy scent, like freshly tilled soil. Images flashed through your head—those of a farmhouse, a field of wheat.

You saw dark skies, lightning darting across a flat, otherwise desolate landscape, then all-consuming black. You set the jacket back down, focusing on these random tidbits in order to jog your memory.

Nothing else would come to you—what did it all mean? You could only guess.

Your stomach rumbled, but you did not feel like getting dressed. Food could wait, you decided, and so could apologizing to the general, wanting more than anything to sleep. The last few days had been draining, but you attributed it to losing half your digestive system and an entire leg below the knee, enduring things you were not privy to in order to be kept alive.

You crawled under cool sheets; the bed was more than you could ever need—enough for two or three people. You stretched your arms out to experiment; you could not reach the other side in either direction.

You felt oddly happy, you realized, turning over to gather silky fabric between your fingers, tugging the blanket up under your chin so that you could snuggle in.

It was something a child might do, though your mind slowly turned toward grim thoughts again, remembering another thing that A4-D had said to you—that pleasant feeling lost in an instant, no matter that you struggled to hold onto it.

What collection? How permanent? Did you care? Was Grievous all that bad?

You still felt the droid could not be trusted, and you hardly knew the cyborg general who played the part of your charitable host. You had little to judge him with—only that, so far, he had been kind to you and that you wished to repay him somehow, some way.

Yes, he was rough around the edges; his overall appearance had frightened you, but now you were more or less intrigued. It was obvious Grievous had feelings, one way or the other, though how he felt about you was still mostly a mystery.

After a time, you began to close your eyes, unable to keep them open any longer.

You drifted off, feeling warm and safe—at least for now. Come what may, you had kissed him!

You still had so many questions left to ask, so many things to learn. Hopefully, A4-D would entertain them, lest he catch you snooping once more where you did not belong.

---

Upon entering the control room, Grievous had enabled his MagnaGuards, already at full charge. He was not sure that he would not receive any surprise guests sooner rather than later, having disconnected your rescue beacon—though it had been active for days.

“Patrol the perimeter,” he instructed several of the droids, his head swiveling on its ball joint connector as he looked towards two others. “You two—you will guard the halls. Report anything suspicious—now go!”

Finally alone, with the doctor off tending to whatever duties he deemed necessary for the time being, Grievous stood in the center of the empty chamber, breathing more heavily than usual, though unsure of the cause; he was all riled up and, for once, without purpose.

His thoughts were jumbled; he was experiencing phantom… feelings. Things that felt like emotions, though it had been so long they were barely recognizable.

Certain things the general had come to understand—fear, hate, anger, grief, disgust… Other things he could only remember, echoes of a distant past.

The cyborg began to pace, owing to his frustration. A rumble rose to the surface—a sound of confusion and indignation. Yet, there was something else there, too. Something he could not quite identify. It was foreign, like a language one had to learn before true understanding could take place.

Grievous slammed a fist into the nearest wall. Then, he stalked to his communications array but did not sit down. He gazed at the cameras, observing the myriads of views he had of his own lair, though a press of a single digit brought a new image into focus—it was you, and you were crawling into bed.

It was as if every time he looked at you, he lost his breath, his aching, organic lungs rasping out a disjointed gasp for air as he fought off a cough.

Watching you lie down for sleep reminded him of the life he had left behind. Though his body still needed rest, not once had he covered himself with blankets, nor placed a pillow beneath his head. Not once had he lain down with another, though he had had wives, children—dreams, love. Not since his transformation into this… this being made up of electro-drivers and crystal circuitry.

The general’s eyes flared at his private realization—it was your touch, your kiss, that had triggered within him this undesirable response! He felt sickened, though he could not peel himself away from the image of you on the screen, though you were doing nothing but lying there.

He suddenly felt lowly; this was beneath him—the martial commander of the droid army reduced to nothing but a peeping tom. Yet you were the cause of this behavior. Ever since your arrival, he had felt unlike himself.

While some might argue that change was good—Grievous being among them—he was flustered by his loss of concentration, enticed by your flesh, lured in by your apparent attraction toward him. Yet it was the physical contact that had caught him off guard, igniting within him a sense of yearning—of longing for closeness, for things he could never have.

He did not appreciate being teased.

“Impudent girl,” the Kaleesh growled, ready to rip you from your bed sheets. “You have made a grave mistake underestimating me! I am no one’s fool.”

“What was that, Master?”

Grievous cut the feed to the camera just as A4-D ventured into the room, his elongated cranium tilting toward the right, looking past the general’s shoulder.

“What were you looking at, Master?” Then, with suspicion lacing his tone, “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine! Return to your duties!”

“I need a recharge. You should also get some rest—you look awful.”

Grievous did not argue, but glowered, shoving past the droid to make his way toward his own quarters. But before he could make it fully out the door, the doctor went behind his back and reactivated the feed, just to see what he had been up to.

Just as he suspected…

“The girl—” A4-D began, “—what are we to do with her?” he asked, tiptoeing around to face the general’s back. He wondered at his strange fixation, and if it was going to pose a problem to his work.

Grievous did not bother to turn around, training his eyes on the floor. They had narrowed substantially, for two reasons. One, he knew the doctor was not fond of your presence. And two, he had not yet decided.

A gruff sound of irritation passed through his voice box. “Put her to work, make her get down on her hands and knees. Have her clean every corner of every room—we shall see how well she behaves.”

The droid felt a little spark of something akin to glee. Perhaps he had been wrong about his Master. “I will have her start tomorrow morning!”

Grievous glanced over his shoulder, though he said nothing of the doctor’s apparent change in mood. “I hope, for her sake, she takes well to following orders.”

“And if not?” A4-D asked, wondering just how Grievous might punish you if it came to that.

“Then I shall deal with her!” came his reply, though how had yet to be determined.

“Excellent, Master! Now, off to rest with you! You need your strength! And do not forget your nutrient intake!”

Grievous intended to comply, though his thoughts remained with you. He was unsure how well he might achieve a low-power state, should his gray matter not wish to settle down—an issue for organics that he could not seem to rid himself of, one that was… problematic.

“Rest is for the dead,” Grievous bit back. Were it not for the Jedi, for his life’s mission, he hypothesized death was something he may have otherwise preferred.

“And it is for you as well. This is not open for discussion.”

With a grunt of complaint, Grievous was gone, having lumbered out of sight.

A4-D turned back toward the camera feed, watching as you tossed and turned in bed, rolling to the other side of the spacious mattress. Instead of recharging himself right away, he now had other plans—and they all involved how to make your life less easy and just a little bit more miserable.

“Sweet dreaaaams…” he taunted.

Chapter Text

Sleep came to you in small spurts only. You tossed and turned, overpowered by hunger. You had thought you would be able to wait it out, but you should have listened to the doctor.

You wondered if it was too late to contact him, not sure of the hour or if he would be in some way unavailable—perhaps recharging, or up to no good. He seemed to be the type, what with his confession about his previous employment. Yet he was the only being—sentient or not—within your orbit (besides the general) whom you could ask for help.

You decided to go for it, sitting up in bed. You pressed the touch-sensitive lamp off to the side, bathing the room in a pale glow. You eyed the holocomm on the bedside table. As if it mattered, you reached out for the top that rested where you left it—by now hanging off the edge of the mattress—and tugged it over your head and across your bare breasts.

Once situated, you pressed the button, attempting to hail the droid as if he were room service. You lightly chuckled at the thought, but it was to no avail—the doctor must be currently preoccupied.

You huffed a sigh. That left you no choice. You were going to have to go out to search for food.

Surely, Grievous’ fancy fortress had a kitchen, if for nothing else than those guests the droid had mentioned. Despite your abdomen not being fully intact, it did not prevent you from desiring a home‑cooked meal, if such a thing existed in this place—there was only one way to find out.

Shimmying into a pair of underwear, you squeezed into your pants—or what you knew to be your pants—finding a pair of socks stuffed inside the boots that rested on the floor. It felt odd to be wearing them over your artificial limbs, but it was not uncomfortable. 

Once dressed, you stood and paused beside the door A4‑D had warned you about—he had explicitly instructed you not to wander around outside.

You contemplated this for a moment; the general had said Gor would no longer bother you, but could that be trusted? He was a wild beast, after all, and who knew what else milled about the halls.

You took a breath, pushed a button on the control panel, then stepped beyond the threshold.

No monsters lurked; nothing came to greet you. The corridor was empty—so far, so good.

Your boots echoed faintly with every footfall. Overhead globe lamps cast spooky shadows, causing you to want to quicken your pace, but you withheld. It was not as if you even knew what direction to take, walking for the sake of walking, hoping that you might come across a dining room somewhere nearby, the assumption being Grievous’ visitors would not have to go far to fill their bellies.

You were well on your way when you heard a sound—the clanking of metallic feet against flat stone. You were thrilled at the prospect—it must be the doctor, knowing that even if he was reluctant to do so, he would eventually point you in the right direction, most likely after scolding you for not staying put.

“Doctor!” you called out, anticipating him to turn the corner, even going so far as to close the gap—you were improving, growing more accustomed to your cybernetic leg. You hadn’t held onto the wall even once! It was something to be proud of.

Instead of the droid you expected, another stood before you. It was tall and imposing, its photoreceptors two pits of burning hellfire.

“You’re not the doctor…” you whispered.

It said something in what you thought was droidspeak, but it was garbled and deep. It took two steps toward you, and you took two steps back. It was dressed in a cape and some kind of headgear—it reminded you of Grievous, yet this one had no soul; he was entirely mechanical.

“Stay back,” you told it. The droid did not listen, responding with another round of clicks and robotic growls. It was armed, you realized; an electrostaff was strapped across its back.

Just then, another of its kind joined it, coming around from the opposing corner. They began communicating with one another in a way you could not understand. You did not intend to stick around, turning tail to flee while they were distracted, even though you thought that maybe this was a very bad idea.

The clicks got louder, more aggressive. You froze in place as one grabbed the back of your shirt’s collar. It lifted you—quite literally—up off the ground.

“Hey, let me go!” you screeched, batting at its hand behind you, though you were unable to do so effectively—not that it made a single difference. You were overpowered as if a child. The droid began carrying you, even as you kicked your legs, somewhere off down the hall.

“What are you doing?! Where are we going? Put me down!” you demanded, unsure of what was about to happen to you.

Having been so far gone after your crash and nearing unconsciousness, you failed to realize these MagnaGuards had been present when the general had found you halfway to dead. It was perhaps the only reason they had not harmed you, though they seemed to know you should not be meandering about, exploring their master’s castle.

“I just wanted some food,” you protested. They did not seem to comprehend what you were saying—either that, or they did not care.

“You know, food?” You made a motion with your hand, as if eating. The two droids continued to disregard you, and you continued to be treated like a misbehaving youngling, having no choice but to be carted off like a pup by its scruff.

Ultimately, you were acting as if these droids could not simply kill you if they so wished, perhaps a better fate than facing Grievous. There was no doubt he would be unhappy.

“Please, let me go,” you whined. “I’ll go straight back to my room! I was just hungry.”

One of the IG-100s made a sound that you thought was meant to command you to shut up. He shook you roughly, then prodded you in the side.

“Ow! Stupid droid,” you scowled, hissing beneath your breath. You were becoming irritated; you said it without thinking, though the MagnaGuard had heard you loud and clear.

The next thing you knew, you had been slammed against the wall. The breath was knocked out of you as you crumpled onto the floor. These particular models were more discerning, it seemed—able to pass judgment, and to tell when they were being disparaged.

You gasped for air, having dropped onto your knees. You were no real threat, but that did not appear to matter to them, as the one who had been carrying you unleashed his shock staff, igniting both ends.

“What—no!” you pleaded, faced with a crackling of electricity so close to your face. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

Another slew of nonsense—the IG-100 remained incomprehensible. You covered your head and face in preparation for being struck, thinking that you might die here.

“That is enough,” came a calm but steady voice. Both MagnaGuards turned their heads—A4-D was addressing them from his end of the hall.

“You will put away your weapons and leave at once. This human is not to be harmed.”

You peeked out from under your arms from your spot on the ground, cowering in fear. Never had you been so glad to see a droid, watching as the MagnaGuard threatening you slowly lowered its electrostaff and secured it onto his back, per A4-D’s request.

“Thank you,” you breathed, watching as the two droids walked away in tandem, ignoring you completely as if you weren’t even there. It was just as well, you thought—wanting never to cross their paths again. You wondered at their purpose, though the doctor was quick to clue you in.

“IG-100 MagnaGuards—assassin droids, trained by the general himself. They guard his fortress. You are lucky they are programmed to listen to me in the absence of my Master.”

All you could do was nod, gradually unfolding your arms. You pushed up off your palms, though it was difficult with your new leg; walking was one thing, keeping your balance was another.

“I told you to stay put. Do you ever listen?” A4-D snapped.

You dusted off your pants, knowing they were the only pair you had, unsure when you might ever get to wash them. “I tried to comm you,” you said quietly, a borderline pout taking hold.

The droid sighed in an all-too-human way; it was slightly disconcerting. “And for what purpose?” he asked snootily.

“You said to tell you when I was hungry,” you replied, hanging your head, staring at the toes of your boots. Your stomach growled as if to back up your story, though you hadn’t known it was still capable of that—what with being made up of spare parts.

A4-D eyed you squarely, then puttered around, walking back in the direction he had come. “This way,” he directed.

Finally, you thought, curious as to what the droid might conjure up for you to eat. His voice interrupted your imaginings—you had been daydreaming about a loaf of freshly baked bread with a side of bluefruit jam and saltnut butter. You thought you could smell it now, and it reminded you of home.

Home... Freshly baked bread reminded you of home?

“I am beginning to think you are more trouble than you are worth,” the doctor began. “If you are to stay here and remain in my Master’s good graces, you will have to earn your keep.”

“My… keep?”

“Additionally, you cannot continue to disobey orders.”

“Orders?”

A4-D spun around, quicker than you believed he could move, all four of his limbs stretched out above and beside him in a menacing posture, as if he were trying to intimidate you—it was working.

“Yes, orders.”

You gave him a quizzical expression, though you felt trepidation building up inside you.

It was as if the doctor could read your mind.

“Do not worry, human. All in due time.”

You felt he was being nebulous again—on purpose.

“And it will make Grievous happy?” you asked, that being your only true concern.

A4-D found some humor in this, for he gave a derisive snicker before answering. “Oh yes. You will be a good little pet for him, or suffer the consequences—you may wish he had never rescued you.”

You did not appreciate the mirth with which the droid relayed this information, thinking he would rather you experience the latter.

Pet? You frowned at the word, though you did not correct him or argue, knowing that you had no choice but to please your host, having nowhere else to go. Yet you found the idea did not sound so terrible; you truly wanted to repay his kindness, even if that kindness did not last.

“I will do what I can,” you returned.

“See that you do. It is in your best interest.”

Suddenly, you weren’t all that hungry anymore.

Chapter Text

Your steps were slow. Even A4-D could walk faster than this, though you cupped your chest, massaging your sore ribs. You coughed pathetically—your adrenaline had worn off. There was a deep ache beneath your skin, pain flaring at your back where you had been slammed into the wall.

Still, you marched onward, not uttering one complaint. You were sure it would not do you any good regardless, and that the doctor would not be sympathetic to your plight.

You nearly ran into the back of your droid escort, stopping at the last possible moment before a set of ornate double doors. You were unsure of what to expect, but it was definitely not something like this.

You had been led to what you could only describe as a dining or banquet hall, complete with a trestle table that extended from nearly one end of the room to the other. Rectangular in shape, it was surrounded by twelve chairs, equally spaced apart, though there were two that sat opposite each other at the head and end, respectively.

It looked like something seen in fiction, something only a person of extreme wealth and prestige could afford. You pondered it for a moment; Grievous was the commander of the Separatist army, after all, though you could not imagine him hosting lavish parties or entertaining dignitaries.

Everything was spotless, though it appeared unused in general. There were globe lamps precisely positioned every third chair, attached to the wall behind them, though otherwise the room was sparse, simple, and had no decorations. It was practically immaculate to the point of sterility. You supposed your presence here was about to ruin that, but A4-D was the one who brought you here—it wouldn’t be your fault.

You tried to remain patient, squirming in your chair at the head of the table. You were tempted to speak out loud, to see if there would be an echo, but refrained. You did not want to annoy the droid more than you already had with your incessant questions, as he called them, allowing your thoughts to wander, though you were still amped up after your encounter with the IG-100 MagnaGuards.

How fortunate you had been for the doctor to show up when he did. Already, the wind had been knocked out of you, and it was something you were reminded of as you found yourself periodically struggling to catch a full breath.

It would be just your luck to turn out like Grievous—gasping and wheezing every five minutes, unable to control it. You wondered if it was the result of his accident or something that had happened to him in battle, sitting as quietly as you could while you waited for the doctor to return.

A few moments later, A4-D’s haughty voice rang out from somewhere close behind you. “You will be pleased to know that I am able to provide you with a single ration bar. Gratitude will be accepted in the form of your continued silence.”

You watched as the droid set it down in front of you. It was still wrapped, and though he did not desire for you to talk, you found you had one more thing to ask for.

“May I please have some water?” you whispered.

AD-4 scoffed and turned back around. “Yes, I suppose organics do need to stay hydrated,” he muttered, disappearing off somewhere again. You had noticed a doorway on the left side of the room. Perhaps there was a kitchen back there, or a pantry of some kind.

It seemed silly to you—a ration bar being the only thing you were given while seated in such a stately room at a table meant for extravagant, well-attended gatherings. Still, food was food, and you were happy to at least have something to eat.

You lifted your arm slowly. It hurt to do so, causing an unpleasant sensation as the motion pulled at muscles and affected nerve endings. Even so, you were so famished that you bit back the pain, holding the bar in place with one hand as you began to peel back the wrapping with the other.

It had a neutral smell, though your belly grumbled just from the sight of it. You couldn’t be sure of its ingredients, but at least you knew it was edible. Taking a bite, a few small crumbs fell onto your top; you were too busy chewing to notice.

The taste wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good, either. You ate unhurriedly, savoring your meal, as you didn’t know when you would get another.

You were only on your second bite when you heard a sound—it was loud, metallic, and mildly vexing. You lifted your head, having been staring at nothing in particular, lost in thought.

You were just in time to witness the hulking form of General Grievous stride into the room; your brows arched upward in surprise.

The general’s arms were neatly tucked behind him, his hands clasped—at least from what you could tell. His cape was missing. You got the sense that he was tired, though he said nothing, stopping at the opposite end of the table, closest to the door.

You ceased your chewing mid-bite.

Grievous appeared to be observing you. You swallowed down the bit of ration bar that remained in your mouth. When he did not speak or move otherwise, you took another bite out of nervousness, for something to do, though smaller—not wanting to be caught with your mouth entirely full should he decide to question you.

Finally, he said something, his voice gruff but with a tone that indicated he was slightly amused. “You nibble at your food like a mouse.”

The general pulled out the closest chair—the one at the end of the table, facing you opposite, but from twelve feet away. “That is what I will call you—mouse.”

Your thoughts flew back to your brief interaction from earlier; you could feel your cheeks burn. Though not what you had in mind, you had told him he could call you anything he liked. You still thought you ought to apologize for your brash actions, yet you felt paralyzed under his scrutiny.

Grievous sat down. You pulled your shoulders back, attempting to sit up straight. You had been eating like a mouse, hunched over your food, your ration bar held securely in both hands as if someone would steal it from you otherwise, desperate to keep it for yourself.

“Is it good?” the cyborg asked in a patronizing manner, not able to remember the taste of the last meal he had eaten, nor the taste of any others. He was not sure that he missed it—the act of eating—only now he was fed intravenously through his gut-sack, able to store nutrients in the fluid that protected his remaining organs so that they would not quit functioning and rot. It was a nuisance, but something he had come to terms with—something the doctor had to remind him of, so that he would not “wither away and perish.”

You nodded in agreement, not buying into what you perceived as rudeness; you glanced down and noticed the crumbs clinging to your top. You moved your arm too quickly in order to clear them and gasped in pain. You remained still, closing your eyes in order to will it away, hoping that it might go unnoticed—no such luck.

You did not have to look at him again to tell that Grievous was glaring at you, the severity of his stare practically searing your flesh clean off the bone. You carefully placed your ration bar back down on the table and forced yourself to inhale deeply; the ache in your chest was palpable, you suspected.

“What is wrong?” Grievous thundered, glowering at you harder.

Your eyelids fluttered open; you gazed at him as you tried to catch your breath.

“Nothing,” you murmured, unsure of the consequences of your actions, not wanting anything worse to happen to you.

You had left your assigned quarters against the doctor’s explicit instructions; you had called Grievous’ personal bodyguards stupid, of all things. You had been punished in a way that they saw fit and were currently suffering for it—what else would be in store for you should you tell Grievous the truth?

“You are lying!” Grievous snapped, slamming his curled-up fist onto the table. You jumped in your seat, ready to cry, surprised by what he said next.

“Come here... little mouse,” he coerced, leaning forward in his seat. Either hand now grasped at the arms of his high-backed chair, all twelve fingers curling firmly around them and beneath.

If he thought his manner inviting, the general was sorely mistaken. You felt as if you had no choice, gingerly pushing yourself up to stand.

The act in and of itself caused you to whimper. The general dipped his head forward, as if attempting to see into you, so austere was his stare.

“Tell me,” he demanded, not so much asking, “why?”

You took two small steps forward and paused, not knowing where to begin.

Grievous lifted one arm and upturned his palm; he beckoned you with a single digit, curling it inward toward his wrist. You took a breath and continued on your way, albeit warily.

“Your droid—it attacked me,” you whispered. The moment you were close enough, Grievous cinched your forearm tightly, careful in pulling you toward himself, though his grip was snug—you felt he did not plan on letting go any time soon.

“My droid?” he barked, curling his other arm around the back of your waist, scooping you forward to meet with him more closely than you had anticipated. You yelped despite yourself, though you kept a brave face.

“The doctor?” he rasped in disbelief, having given him a definitive set of instructions before your surgery—you were not to be harmed!

“N-no,” you stuttered, the general now looming over you even as he remained in his seat. He was so gargantuan in height that you felt impossibly small, failing to look him in the eyes.

“What do you mean?” he questioned harshly, releasing your wrist to curl his abnormally long fore, thumb, and middle fingers around the tip of your chin, coaxing you to look at him.

He was being unbelievably tender toward you; you took another shaky breath before responding.

“Your guards—the ones roaming the halls.”

The general made a sound as if he were affronted or confused, peering hard into your small, human eyes.

“My bodyguards?” he asked, letting your chin loose, though his gaze seemed to intensify, if that were possible. “Why should they approach you if you were where you belonged?”

You were quiet; that let Grievous know all that he needed to know.

“You disobeyed yet again?” he rasped.

“I was hungry,” you said softly. “I tried to comm the doct—”

“—Enough!” Grievous interrupted; you flinched, ready to be punished.

Instead, your host refastened his fingers around your forearm. You felt the clench. This time, he pulled you all the way forward to the point you gasped, as much from the sudden movement and associated pain as from unsurety and fright.

“Where does it hurt?” he queried; there seemed to be no hidden motive behind the question. You sucked in a breath.

“I was shoved into the wall,” you confessed. “It sometimes hurts to breathe and move my arms.”

Grievous’ golden eyes narrowed; his face came in close to yours. How weak and pathetic humans were—at least those that were not Jedi.

You felt something touch you—caress you—the vertex of a single finger following the curve of your throat.

“We shall see.”

“Now, do not go and ask for anything else after this. I have wasted entirely too much time—”

A4-D stumbled back mid-complaint, not expecting Grievous to be present, having only been gone a few minutes. Within one hand was a glass of water, though he had had trouble locating a vessel in which to contain it; all the fine dinnerware and glassware was in storage, as Grievous so rarely received visitors of any kind, and it had taken him a bit to find it.

“Oh! Master! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be resting?” the doctor asked, though he did not favor the look the general sported; even though only his eyes remained, it was still possible to tell when he was angry, whether he expressed himself verbally or not.

“She will ask of you anything she wants,” came his response, low and menacing.

Next, Grievous stood, pushing you back with him, forcing you to make room, though he did not let go of your arm. “You will examine her,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “She has been injured—under your watch.”

“Under—Master! She will not stay put! The MagnaGuards took things into their own hands when she strayed from her room. Surely, you cannot expect me to—”

“You have not fed her! That is unacceptable.”

“Well, it was not from a lack of trying. Every time—”

“—I do not wish to hear your excuses.”

Grievous glanced toward you; you were looking longingly at the ration bar across the table, then toward the cup of water in A4-D’s hand.

“Is there nothing else you can provide her?”

“I don’t mind the ration bar,” you said quietly, though no one had asked your opinion.

“Shall I order food to be prepared? Am I to be her personal shopper and her chef as well?”

“We shall let her decide what she wants,” Grievous said with finality.

“But what about her behavior? What about putting her to work?” A4-D questioned, remembering the words they had exchanged earlier behind closed doors.

You looked back and forth between them; you didn’t necessarily mind the idea of working, not if that is what Grievous wanted you to do—a small price to pay for food and shelter.

“I can work,” you boasted. “I don’t mind—at least until I can remember where I came from.”

Grievous’ gaze shot toward you; he was utterly silent. You felt perplexed. You shifted uncomfortably, rotating your wrist, wondering if he might loosen his grip, but he did not budge.

“You will both do as I say!” he growled.

Now both you and the droid were quiet. You watched as A4-D finally set down the cup of water, though it was too far away for you to reach. Beyond that, there was an awkward silence—it seemed the doctor knew when to quit, even if you didn’t.

Grievous seemed satisfied by this.

“See to her injuries; this will not happen again,” he stated resolutely.

“Very well, Master. And shall she finish her meal first, or shall we head to the medical facility?”

Grievous, as if to make a point that both could be done at the same time, finally let you go. He stomped forward, snatched up the remains of your ration bar in one hand, and the glass of water in the other. Then, he proceeded to return to you, passing them off.

You gingerly took them from his outstretched hands.

“Thank—”

You squealed; the general had bent down to lift you up; some of the water sloshed out. You tried not to let on how much that had hurt; flexing your body in so many ways caused your ribs to sting.

“Eat,” he commanded, turning with you to face the door, supporting your back with one arm and your legs with the other. “Drink,” he added, exiting out into the hall.

“Doctor.” Grievous paused to look over the point of his shoulder. “You will follow.”

You gazed up as the general began to walk. Grievous was looking straight ahead. From this vantage, you could see all sorts of tubes and wires, mechanical components, and beyond into his ribs—into his gut-sack.

And there was his steadily beating heart. He seemed so fragile to you then. You would keep this notion to yourself, for now, content to stay nestled in his arms for as long as he might allow, or for the length of the trip, though you did not wish for it to end.

Though this was not how you imagined your night to go, it wasn’t so bad. You now had food, water, and you were being carried so that you did not have to walk—slowly and in pain—to your next destination.

You could not help yourself; you cuddled up, taking a small bite from your ration bar as Grievous toted you down the dimly lit corridor. You turned your head to look behind him to see A4-D staring directly at you—he did not seem pleased, but what else was new?

“I’m sorry,” you finally whispered. There was a stumble to Grievous’ next step, though hardly noticeable unless you looked closely—or unless you were being held by him.

“Remember, I brought you here,” Grievous grated, as if to say—did he not want you, you were just as easy to dispose of.

You would not push the matter further.

Chapter Text

The verdict was bruised ribs.

The worst of your symptoms was the sharp pain that only increased with movement, followed by tenderness to the touch—you had discovered that the hard way. A4-D was not so delicate, come to find.

In addition, you had some swelling and discoloration along your chest. For those first few nights it had been a bit hard to breathe.

You were given painkillers—the droid had seemed all too eager to administer the shot. You thought perhaps he liked hurting you, and it was not so far-fetched, what with his previous employment history divulged to you along with a secret you still held onto, thinking of it every time you were in proximity to the general: Grievous was lonely—a problem you wished to solve.

Your host had turned his head away at your undressing despite having seen you naked earlier, the doctor examining you at his request. You had been carried like a bride over the threshold straight into the medbay, allowed to finish your ration bar along the way.

“See to it that she recovers expeditiously,” Grievous had demanded. “Give her everything she requires or wants to heal.”

“Everything, Master?”

“Food, clothes, entertainment, medicine—do not deny our guest those comforts humans need.”

You wondered at the undertone of his voice—the way he had enunciated the word “human.”

In regard to this, it seemed A4-D had more to say but in this case he held his tongue—though he lacked one in the literal sense—keeping his silence, which you were beginning to think was a rare thing indeed.

With a final cursory glance in your direction the Kaleesh cyborg had stomped out, leaving you once more alone with the droid you were beginning to question, not knowing his true motives in the way he handled or addressed you—was he resentful of your presence? Did he wish for you to leave? If you remained here for too long, would he take matters into his own, many hands?

All these thoughts were pushed aside, the doctor deciding to keep you temporarily for observation, though you had only just gotten a taste of that spacious bed—the one you had stupidly left behind to track down sustenance. It was how you had gotten into this mess, and you wondered when you would be allowed to return, preferring its soft, comfortable sheets to the ones that were too full of starch and scratchy against your skin.

“Am I to stay here long?” you had asked after an hour had crept by. You were bored out of your mind, not that you had anything better to do.

A4-D seemed annoyed by your query, attending to his instruments. “If my Master is to have his way, then it would appear to be so.”

“I—”

“—You very well know the answer to that, anyway. I have already told you.”

“I meant the room…” His irritated tone should not have bothered you by now though there was something different about the way he spoke to you. Furthermore, you did not particularly enjoy the idea of not having a say-so on whether or not you could leave at your own discretion.  

“Once you are able to walk without my Master carrying you, and if you can manage to stay out of trouble, you may return to your quarters. I assume the painkillers have already kicked in.”

“That wasn’t my—hey!”

You shooed the doctor’s arm away from where he had poked you unnecessarily.

“See? You would be screaming in agony if they had not,” A4-D said blandly.

“When will you make my leg look like a real leg?” you exclaimed, not quite sure where that had come from.

A4-D canted his head to one side. “Are you not satisfied with how you appear? Do you not wish for others to know that you have been upgraded?” The droid tsked. “Master will be displeased … However, If you wish for me to acquire synthflesh, just say so. Master did state I was to give you anything you wanted.”

You thought it over. Was it so bad the way it was now? Would Grievous actually be displeased, or was A4-D trying to deter you, wishing to avoid more work that would be to your benefit? Truth be told, it was slightly unnerving to see all the bare parts and wires, the metal … and more so those within your guts.

“And my … my stomach?” you asked, glancing down. It was covered by your top though it sat a bit awkwardly against the complicated machinery that lay just beneath it.

“You mean your abdomen?” A4-D asked without bothering to look at you. “It is more than just your stomach that has been replaced.”

You huffed a sigh of exasperation. “Yes.”

“Fine,” A4-D regrettably acquiesced, “but do not hold your breath. Covering your mechanical components is at the bottom of my priorities list.”

---

You paced back and forth. Voices spoke behind you—some holoshow you had no real interest in. These prerecorded people had kept you company for all of three days and Grievous was nowhere to be found.

You were listless. A4-D made for poor companionship. Even so, he rarely came by your quarters. This lavish room was feeling more like a prison day by day. You wished to go out, to explore, to speak to someone who could hold a conversation.

You were not sure where the general had gone off to. His doctor-droid had simply said he was “out on business, none of which is yours.” Rude to say the very least, and it did nothing to quell your curiosity.

Of course he was busy. He was the leader of a vast military—something you had yet to wrap your head around. Still, he had been the one to rescue you—the one to bring you here to his great fortress—what were his plans? Why were you still here? Still alive, according to A4?

You faceplanted onto your bed, stretching out all your limbs. The doctor had yet to add synthskin to your cyborg bits. It wasn’t that pressing, you had decided, though you hoped one day that he would oblige you—especially before you returned home; you did not wish to scare your family.

You supposed you had a family…

You still had dreams about them, or what you thought was them. Their faces were fuzzy. It was all very frustrating as you could not remember much. You hoped that gradually your memory would return to you, but until then you had another want—another desire—you wished for the handsome warlord to return to you.

Yes, handsome.

You had decided he was handsome.

Never in your wildest imaginings did you think you would find yourself enamored with a man that was more machine than flesh and blood. But he had been kind to you. He had saved your life. He was the one thing standing in the way of the doctor turning you into some freak experiment, you presumed, and you could not help your feelings however strange they were

“Ugh!” you cried to no one. The voices on the holotube paused as if they could hear you before picking back up their recited lines. While you had been given everything you had asked for, fed until your belly was full of delicious things, given clothes to wear ordered from off the holonet including sleepwear, still, it was not enough.

You somehow felt ungrateful, lying there in a pair of shorts and a tank top, soft to the touch. You had everything a human needed to survive; you remained unsatisfied.

“Where is he?” you whined into your pillow, feeling stir crazy, as if one more day in this place might drive you mad. As if to answer your prayers, the hydraulic door to your suite slid open, a booming voice echoing from outside in the hall.

“Where is who?” Grievous asked, followed by another question which made him sound a little more than irritated, “is A4-D not attending to your needs?”

You gasped, startled, then quickly pushed yourself up on your palms. You flipped yourself around and stared at him with wide, excited eyes. Grievous stared back at you, his intense gaze unwavering, yet he did not cross the threshold into your room—was it out of respect, you wondered?

“No,” you started. “I mean, yes, he is, but that is not who I…” You trailed off, wondering if you should so readily admit your complaints. But if you didn’t, would he be one to piece two and two together?

The general was silent, waiting for you to finish. He said nothing, nor did he move, not even blinking his gold-colored eyes; you really could get lost in them.

“You,” you finally finished. “I was waiting for … you.”

You felt a blush coming on, your skin warming. You wondered at how to stop it but knew it to be impossible. In that moment, you wished you were anything but human, giving yourself away too easily.

You heard a clank—a shifting of weight on Grievous’ part. He had taken a step back, searching the floor at his clawed feet as if trying to understand.

Shortly, he looked back up.

“I was summoned by Count Dooku,” he responded, as if that in and of itself was good enough. It was odd, seeing a man—cyborg—of his stature seem hesitant. Someone who could rip you apart in an instant should he wish to do so.

“Oh,” you lamely returned.

“How are you … feeling?” Grievous questioned awkwardly, his tone inquisitive. He stepped forward this time, to your surprise, but halted several feet away, still allowing you your personal space even if you wished for him to come closer.

“Better.”  You stood. He was so much taller than you it was ridiculous. “Though it still hurts some … here,” you said, placing your hand against your left side just below your breast.

The general’s eyes traveled downward; you noted the way his gaze stalled, lingering on the soft shapes beneath your top. He cleared his throat, then lifted his eyes once more. He considered this, then spoke again in a rough gravel. “Are your needs being met?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“No!” you blurted out. This seemed to catch him off guard, for his reptilian eyes broadened briefly, the articulated digits of his right hand opening and closing, squeezing something invisible though perhaps reflexive.

“No?” he repeated, leaning forward now, dipping close to your face. “What is wrong? What is it that you require?”

“I—” You swallowed down your spit but were brave enough to meet his stare head-on. You no longer felt afraid of him though you undoubtedly should. His appearance alone was unlike anything else in the galaxy, though you had grown accustomed to it, wanting to reach out and touch the mechanical audio receptors that jutted out from his head; they shifted backward, however slight—it reminded you of a tooka.

“I’m bored! I have no one to talk to besides A4, and he is terrible company,” you confessed, beginning to pace once more, back and forth. “I would wish to speak to you, but you are never here.”

Grievous’ neck swiveled as he followed your path though for now he remained quiet, listening intently to your words; you were unsure of how he might receive them.

“I am tired of watching holodramas, tired of sitting in this room with nothing to do. Perhaps—” you had a thought just then, like a switch had flipped inside your brain, “—perhaps I should return to the crash site, see if I can learn something about myself, where I came from, or—”

Grievous cut you off from that line of thinking though he did so somewhat subtly, focusing instead on the former half of what you had said.

“And what would we speak of, Mouse?” he inquired, his audio receptors once more adjusting, tilting forward again as he stood up straight, waiting for you to answer.

“Anything,” you whispered, your elevated mood slackening as your voice lowered and your tone once more became calm. “I should like to get to know you,” you conceded, believing he might enjoy getting to know you too.

The general made a sound, one you were uncertain of, not able to decipher its meaning as he tightened his cape around himself, eyeing you with what appeared to be mild suspicion. When you only greeted him with a sincere look, he softened, moving to speak, yet nothing but a cough came out.

You frowned at him as you lifted a hand though you thought better of it. Your instinct was to comfort him, much like the last time this had happened, but you knew from your brief interactions it would most likely not be tolerated.

Once his coughing fit subsided he fixed you within his unfaltering stare. After a moment, he made a motion with one arm, ushering you forward. “I have something to show you,” he rasped.

A wellspring of excitement bubbled in your chest laced with a modicum of trepidation. Was this good, bad? You returned his gaze, and when you were sure he seemed earnest, you walked forward, not minding that you were still in your bedclothes and not wearing any shoes.

“What is it?” you asked, hopeful it would be something unique or interesting—your mind was beyond needing some sort of stimulation, and you sincerely wished to learn more about your host.

“You shall see,” Grievous grated.

With that, he clamored out the door following the brandishing of his cloak, dark colored fabric appearing to swallow him whole.

You rushed to accompany him.

Chapter Text

You walked, taking in the scenery around you. This was a part of Grievous’ lair you had not previously seen though in some corners it all looked the same. It had the same drab walls, the same swiveling eye stalks, the little droids surveying their domain for those who did not belong.

Your journey was mostly silent. Though you wished to speak, you were worried your host did not care to be spoken to. His brusque demeanor always had you second-guessing, yet you caught him glancing down at you from the corner of one eye.

You had taken to studying his massive talons and your own metallic foot. You suspected you should have put on real clothes, but he made no mention of it. You marveled at their sharp edges, the way they seemed to grip the floor with every step. You assumed he must be able to climb walls though a silly thought—was it silly?

You had never seen the general in action, but why should you have? There were no threats here. This was his home, a safe space from the galaxy at large. It was likely no one would ever find him here, or you for that matter—you let that thought sink in.

A door opened before you, interrupting your musings. You had come to the end of a long corridor and in front of you was a turbolift. It was spacious, bigger than most you had seen— or so you remembered — spanning some ten feet tall, wide enough to hold roughly twenty people and cylindrical in shape.

“Enter,” Grievous commanded rather than asked, or at least his tone indicated as such. For you, it was hard to tell, though you guessed he must talk to everyone this way.

You did as you were told, gazing up toward the ceiling and all around you. Grievous followed, uninterested in his surroundings, though he watched you carefully, observing your curiosity as if it might amuse him.

“Where are we going?” you questioned, letting your gaze finally rest on his face. You wondered what was beneath that mask—he had eyes, but what of the rest of him? Had it been marred in the crash A4-D had spoken of?

The general chortled lightly. Even his laughter had a harsh edge. “A surprise,” he said darkly. You wondered if you should be afraid.

The lift began to move.

You felt yourself rising, a momentary sense of vertigo washing over you before you were able to steady yourself. You counted three, four floors ... a fifth —a flat, low tone sounded as the turbolift came to a halt almost too abruptly.

You smelled fresh air, the first in days. You could not remember the last time you had gone outside come to think of it, a cool breeze playing against your skin. You were suddenly keenly aware of how underdressed you were, already your body feeling the chill of the moon’s surface.

Despite this, what you bore witness to was nothing short of breathtaking. Stretched out across the rooftop of Grevious’ foreboding fortress was a plethora of flora, a polished walkway leading out toward an expansive array of exotic plants, their leaves, brambles, branches and vines of all shapes, colors, and sizes.

You sucked in a gasp, your senses temporarily overwhelmed by both visual and olfactory input, the sights and smells of this wild garden being completely unexpected but not unwelcome.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, taking your first few steps out of the lift. Your bare feet met cold stone as your arm stretched forward; you brushed your fingers across the frond blades of a purple-colored fern and smiled.

You continued to explore as Grievous kept quiet, the cyborg stalking benignly behind you with his arms folded behind his back. It had been on his agenda to give you a tour, but he thought it arguable better for you to take matters into your own hands and investigate.

Grievous would never admit that seeing you somewhat pleased caused a little something to stir deep down in those bits of him that were still organic, the Kaleesh warrior taking a moment to gaze upward, his attention absorbed by a dense layer of fog and, beyond that, the twinkling of numerous stars.

“Did you build this?” you asked, pulling the general back toward the present. You were admiring a water feature that mimicked a small waterfall, only coming up to you knees. Past that was a structure with an arched roof, filled with a variety of plants that needed extra special attention, you imagined.

You turned to look toward Grievous and followed his gaze—he was looking up, up, so you did too.

You could not tell what time it was, the dark pall above you being so rigidly oppressive, though you were happy to be able to see the semblance of stars. Should it be a clear night, you marveled at how many thousands of millions there might be, there not being another sole source of light for as far as the eye could see besides that of Grievous’ grim stronghold.

At any rate, you were thankful for the opportunity to see something beyond metal and concrete, even if you were a tad bit cold.

“No,” came Grievous’ short answer. After a pause, he decided to elaborate. “The flora that resides here comes from many places—those planets I have conquered. I have started a … collection, you might say.”

You lowered your head, focusing instead on the man before you, eager to listen to him speak at length should he decide to.

“A4-D needlessly reminds me that my organic brain still requires rest, relaxation, and … this—nature. Things that evoke in one a sense of calm.”

You nearly laughed—for him to enunciate “calm” in such a gruff manner had humored you.

Greivous’ head swiveled so that he could stare directly at you.

“I love it,” you said, twirling around once for good measure as you took a deep, settling breath. “It feels good to be outdoors.” Your mind flitted through memories instinctively without your meaning to, “I used to spend a lot of time outdoors.”

The general did not speak again so readily, though he turned away from you, gazing out again at the open sky.

“Do you come here often?” you asked, taking a timid step forward toward him. You did not wish for the conversation to end. 

“Not as often as the Doctor prescribes,” came his answer.

You stopped near to his right, close enough to touch. You had the thought … “Thank you for bringing me here,” you said softly.

The general snapped his head to look at you once more; the gesture was fluid, not robotic at all—not like A4-D. “Being organic, I believed it correct to bring you here,” he rasped without emotion.

A shiver ran down your spine; the wind had picked up. Grievous’ golden eyes constricted before once more broadening. “You are cold.”

“I’m fine,” you lied. Though not entirely freezing, you were practically standing on top of a mountain; the atmosphere felt thinner than what you were used to.

Without further ado, Grevious unclipped his cloak and shimmied the length of it off his shoulders. To your astonishment, he draped it across your own. It was too impractical to walk in, though it served nearly as a blanket. You snuggled into its depths as Grievous walked away from you toward a panel built into the wall.

The general pressed a button. Almost immediately a dome took shape, blocking out all wind; all of the fresh air. You supposed it was good for the plants, especially those that were obviously tropical; the dome itself could easily be used to create the perfect greenhouse effect, barring the fact this rocky world was covered in perpetual clouds. Still, they apparently made do.

Once his task was complete, thundering footsteps carried the general back to your side. “Thank you,” you offered, staring up at him, wondering how it was possible that someone who looked so frightening upon first glance could be so conscientious and considerate.

Looks truly were deceiving.

Little did you know how wrong you were according to some, unaware of the atrocities performed under this man’s leadership—how inhumane Grievous really was. How ferocious he could be in battle. How ruthless and cunning.

Oblivious to everything beyond what you had observed with your own two eyes, you attempted to coil your fingers around the first two of the general’s six digits on the hand closest to you — it was something you had not thought through in its entirety. Warm flesh brushed against sleek duranium alloy, if only briefly.

You felt the flinch, saw the expression of shock flicker across the black slits of his reptilian eyes. You nearly pulled away but felt some sort of resistance, the general not letting you go once he had you, however gently, within his grasp.

“Would you … care to return? It can be arranged for you to visit this place, even in my absence.”

You squeezed his hand; the Kaleesh tensed. “Yes, please!” you exclaimed a little too enthusiastically. “I could tend to the garden, be of help somehow… I’m good with plants. I think I’m good with plants,” you concluded.

Quickly, the general released his grip; you were disappointed but still happy for this bit of time you had shared. Internally, Grievous wondered how much of your previous life you would remember as time wore on; he would address that issue when the need arose.

“It shall be done,” he announced, walking back in the direction from which you both had come.

“You will also take care of Gor,” Grievious added, almost as an afterthought.

“What?!” you cried, unable to imagine going anywhere near that creature in the foreseeable future. “He’ll eat me alive,” you breathed.

“He will accept you. I am his master,” Grievous growled.

You tip-toed forward, wrapping the general’s hulking cape around you more tightly as you slipped in behind him. You were willing to argue that point, but wisely kept quiet for now.

“You may stay here, if you wish.” Grievous motioned back toward the rooftop garden. “Return to the second floor when you are ready.”

“But I want to stay with you,” you blurted out, “go where you go.”

A long stint of silence ensued. You wondered if you had overstepped or said something you shouldn’t have, as you were unable to tell what was going on behind the expressionless white mask that covered your host’s face.

“I am going to feed my roggwart,” Grievous confirmed, wondering if you would want to follow him, knowing his destination. Were you that weak? That afraid that you could not face his pet?

You inhaled slowly, preparing yourself—you would be safe. He had promised you that much.

“OK,” you exhaled, apprehension lacing your tone.

“Good… Come, he is hungry,” Grievous grated in an austere tone. He was satisfied with this new show of bravery on your part, for now.

You nodded, swallowing down your spit. You hoped you would not regret this, but you were determined to make a good impression, still not quite understanding the implications of your being here in the first place, only wanting to do things… right.

“Are you sure he doesn’t bite?”

Grievous laughed derisively. You felt unnerved. “Only when I command him to, little Mouse.”