Tell Me Where It Hurts

[Sam Rodarch]

Coruscant, Lower Levels

The warehouse was surprisingly well-lit.

It was a far cry from the usual ramshackle set-up that Sam Rodarch had always been accustomed to. They would set up shop, host the fights and move on to the next location before they were caught, there was no time for a proper set up.

She supposed this was the benefit of a more established criminal scene. Underground shockboxing with a touch of luxury.

Still, at least there were no pretenses. Harsh floodlights may have peered down upon them, but all they illuminated were ragged faces and old blood stains upon the canvas. The smell of smoke, sweat and copper still mingled together in the air, forming a sweet familiar fog that tasted like home.

A bar had been set up, trying to sate the thirst of punters that wanted more than just cheap liquor. Blood. Several well-guarded tables served as a place to make your bets and find your fortune (although you were more likely to lose it). The only reason that crime lords even hosted these events was due to the lucrative nature of things. Get them drunk, make them bet, watch them lose. Rinse and repeat.

Not that Rodarch gave a flying feth about that aspect of the game.

She came to fight. She came to win.

There had already been a few matches on before her and they were still trying to get an unconscious Trandoshan's arse out of the old squared circle. It was fine. The delay only fed into frustrations and frustrations were best taken out upon somebody else's jaw.

Cheap and nasty stims surged through her blood stream. Instant adrenaline in a vial. It made the rush of blood in your head drown out the crowd around you. It amplified all the rage in the room like you were the living embodiment of the red mist. Everybody here used. Stims, spice, drink. Whatever gave them the edge. It wasn't the preened and posturing official shockboxing that your dad watched on a Zhellday night.

Finally the broken lizard was shifted from the ring and it was her time, her fight.

Spotlights and entrance themes were absentees, as were the notion of entourages. They were vagrants, destitute and desperate down-and-outers. Nothing to lose but everything to win. It made the fights better, made the fighters hardier. It was tooth and nail. Were you eating tomorrow? Were you getting your fix?

She walked down to the ring practically blinkered, with tunnel vision that only looked towards her opponent. A ragged Devaronian with a broken horn. Had to watch the skinny ones, they fought right down to the bone. His gauntlets were in a worse state than hers, the plates were rusted and warped, it must have hurt his own hands to land a stiff blow.

Hopefully that wouldn't be happening.

The bell rang.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

The Sithling stood near the ring, her view unobstructed by the crowd.

People tended to avoid her these days, for some reason.

Alright, it was probably the yellow eyes and the sickly, pallid grayness of her skin. Or perhaps it was the sleek, jet black cybernetic arm attached to her left shoulder - the Empress's Reach, the Sithling called it. But there were plenty of strange looking people in this warehouse, many of whom made the Acolyte look like a model in comparison.

No, it wasn't her appearance that caused people to avoid her - it was the palpable aura of menace that surrounded her, the sort that did one of two things. It made the weak fear you, and it made the strong respect you. So far, few had approached the apprentice, and fewer still stayed near for any length of time - that suited her just fine. She was picky about whose company she kept.

But despite her disdain for the sort that tended to gather at places like the warehouse, she still came there time and time again. Shockboxing was a Blood Sport, and Blood Sports were one of the few things the Sith still allowed herself to indulge in. As for the fight that was about to start, she put her money on the Mandalorian girl - there was a fire in her eyes that the Apprentice respected, a passion for conflict that depressingly few sentients shared.

In a low voice, barely audible and containing the faintest hint of amusement, the Sithling spoke.

"Don't disappoint me now, dearie."

-----

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

They weren't trained fighters, well, if your definition of trained involved a gym, a coach and a lot of time spent hitting bags that couldn't fight back. In their world posture was a myth. Footwork was optional. You hit them, and you avoided getting hit in return and how you did that was your own damned prerogative.

Instead of circling each other like the overpaid peacocks of the big stage, the two went straight for each other, meeting in the middle with gauntlets raised in what was realistically probably a very poor guard.

Not that guarding was anybody's priority.

Both went in with the right. Sam going for a straight jab to the face, the Devaronian with a hook to the side of the head. Both hit. The young woman's gauntleted fist ploughed straight into an already crooked nose, the crunch of cartilage and bone masked by the crackle of electricity. A second later, his crashed into the side of her head, sending the Mandalorian's head snapping towards the side.

He stumbled back, she staggered to the side.

These fights weren't prone to lasting very long.

For as broken as his shockboxing gloves looked, they felt like a rancor prod to the brain. That indescribable awful sensation, like cracking your funny bone off of hard concrete only amplified by so much more.

Pain was fuel to the fire, plain as day to see as Rodarch's lower jaw jutted forward, teeth bared. The squared circle was just a reminder of that violent nature that still lived within both man and woman.

They both bled. Him from the cut across his nose and out from the tap of his nostrils, her from the side of her head, proudly shaved to bear the scars of many ventures in the ring. They both clashed once more. This time not as cleanly.

Fists clashed, their gloves sparking wildly as they unintentionally intercepted each other's punches which became a violent clinch. In their savage closeness Sam could smell the reek of alcohol pour from his pores. Desperate alcoholic. No sympathy, no, it boiled her blood.

Once. A body blow, hopefully to the kidneys. Twice. Another one. Thrice. What teeth she had were grit so hard there might have been a fear they would shatter. He in kind went back to the same right hook, to the same gash upon the side of her head. Despite their close proximity it hurt more than the first one, rattling her brain and giving cause for a harsh grunt.

However they stayed entangled. A fourth body blow, a gift from her in the same spot, as if she was trying to force her gauntlet through his torso.

In an attempt to create distance the Devaronian's head was thrust forth in a swift headbutt, his non broken horn crashing into her own skull, sending the Mandalorian's head rocketing backwards and granting a new cut upon her head. The rules here were vague, and loose and intervention only came if somebody brought outside weapons into the ring. The loosest definition of shockboxing.

Her response was just as vicious, and as technically illegal. A hard snap-kick to his left leg that gave the bloodthirsty spectators a taste of what a hyperextended knee looked like. It bent backwards, the Devaronian gave out a shout.

That was the 'blood in the water' moment.

Rodarch pushed him back, before surging back in. His knee was karked, she knew this and as the horned man began to fall backwards she threw another right at his cheek. A misjudgement of timing (likely due to blows to the head) didn't give it the most satisfying connection but that was an afterthought.

She followed him to the ground, immediately straddling his waist for some of the good old ground and pound. The crowd cheered, those previously sitting rising to their feet to shout for blood, a few odd punters that bet on the wrong bantha throwing their drinks to the ground. Background noises.

The Devaronian's hands rose instinctively to protect his face but she worked around it, raining down blow after blow to the areas he failed to protect. When she slammed her gauntlet into his chest, the shock in such close proximity to his heart left him stunned for a moment. A moment too soon. Wild and wide-eyed saw the opening and a fist crashed into his eye socket with such ferocity that it was an instant shatter job.

Finally the bellman had taken his fill of enjoyment from the spectacle and rang the bell.

These fights weren't prone to lasting very long.

For a moment Sam simply remained atop him, staring down at his bloodied face with a seething ferocity that threatened to spill over the top. Chemical rage and adrenaline urged the woman to keep going, until his face was bloody pulp left mashed upon the canvas but a small modicum of self-control prevented it.

No celebration, no bravo. She dismounted, deactivated her gloves and rolled out the ring, ready to collect her payday.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Savagery. Ferocity. Brutality. Not the slightest hint of remorse for what she was doing to the poor Devaronian she faced off against. The girl in the ring was a fighter - she lived and breathed combat. The Sithling sincerely doubted that she knew anything else.

Yes, the Mandalorian would do nicely. All the Apprentice had to do was find the right time to strike - she observed Samantha exit the ring, collect her prize money, and head for the outside world. This was always the Acolyte's favorite part - the hunt. Get too close, and the target noticed you. Stray too far back, and you can't rush in quickly enough to claim your victory. Had she the time, she might've spent days or weeks stalking her prey, toying with her mind. But the days where she had an abundance of free time were over.

Darth Vitium's Apprentice worked quickly. A turn into an alley, and [member="Sam Rodarch"] was right where the girl needed her to be. With a mental command, she activated the paddle-beamer built into her cybernetic right arm, which hummed quietly. It was a close range weapon, and non-lethal - but that was the point. If it interacted with the spine or brain, it could cause paralysis or unconsciousness, both of which served the Apprentice well.

Eight Meters from her target, she raised her right arm, and fired off the beam - aimed for the back of her prey's neck.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Sam wasn't one to linger.

This wasn't a place where she had friends (although, even back home the woman lacked in that department) and had absolutely no desire to hang about and watch any more of the bloodshed. Straight and to the point. She came in, she fought and she collected her prize (if there was one) and then left.

Today was no different.

A measly two-hundred credits was today's prize. A fortune to some, peanuts to another. Rodarch herself was aware of how paltry the amount was but knew better to not complain. A smaller prize meant fighters who fought more often, more fights meant more bets and more bets meant greater profits. That was just the way things worked.

The combination of her winnings and whatever Viktor had made from odd jobs would keep them afloat for another few days.

The effect of the stims were short-lived. Upon hitting the 'fresh' air of the outside world Sam was rather aware of the drawbacks. A certain familiar ache in her muscles, adrenaline gave away and let her know of the pounding in her head from the hits taken. The rage simmered away into a smaller stock of irritability.

Filth-ridden alleyways lead to the shortest route back to the ship and Sam usually held an air of caution around about this time. Drunken punters who fancied themselves as fighters, angry because they'd bet on the wrong bantha. Maybe bet a little too much. There was always a danger of being ambushed.

Perhaps it was the blows to her head that left the Mandalorian lax upon this occasion.

A mistake.

Her only reaction came upon hearing the beam, she tried in vain to pivot on her foot and turn around but the comedown from the stims had left her sluggish. There was strange sensation just off-from the base of the woman's neck that somehow took her legs out.

It took everything out. Not entirely her consciousness, but almost everything else. Rodarch fell, hitting the ground like a Gamorrean that had partied too hard on Sithmas day. Limbs did not communicate, nor the nerves beneath them. Motor skills too had abandoned ship, for when she tried to speak...or rather swear, all that came was odd vowels.

“..aaaa....eee....ee-eee...”

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Too easy, mused the Acolyte as her prey fell to the ground. With what can only be described as a slightly disappointed sigh, the Apprentice approached her quarry and looked her over.

Heavily muscled, broad shouldered - a pretty healthy physique, marred by extensive scarring and...what was that? The Acolyte leaned in closer, and sighed once more. Track Marks - an addict. Stimulants, in all likelihood. The withdrawal'd be nasty, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It'd help break her down. Beyond that...

A nose that'd been broken multiple times, by the looks of it. A perpetually swollen ear, too. The acolyte did prefer to surround herself with aesthetically pleasant people, but beggar's couldn't be choosers.

---

Back on the Jen'Midwan, the battered old YT-Series freighter that the Acolyte called home, Sam would find herself bound in, of all places, one of the spare cabins. It was probably a spare cabin, at least. In terms of decor, it was somewhere between 'Alchemy Lab' and 'Inquisitorious Torture Chamber' - including restraints, which the Mandalorian was strapped into.

As for the Apprentice, she was present, arms folded across her chest. Her curse and her gift, her drive to dominate, was screaming at her. She had helpless prey. She could do whatever she wanted.

Crush her. Break her. Ruin her. The Acolyte clenched her fist, then relaxed it. She did this a number of times, before the soothing whir of the servos in her arm calmed her. The Mandalorian would bend the knee to her Superior, soon enough. But the Sithling couldn't just bombard her with abuse - there was no artistry to that. No, the Sithling would strip away her prey, piece by piece.

And then, she'd put the pieces back together, however she liked.

-----

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

A failure in action.

Perhaps mercifully it did not take long for the woman to succumb to the call of the unconscious. After all, what was the use of being awake if one could not swear in a satisfactory manner?

---

As cliché demanded, was it all dream? Illusion? Did Sam simply fall over in that alley in a fit of stim-related comedown? Or perhaps the side effects of multiple concussions? These were all hopeful connotations. They suggested a merciful God that watched over them, a Force. That which does not exist. Was there ever any hope?

Rodarch was aware of her existence one more, but this time dressed in a theme of bonds. Restraints. It wasn't a dream. Rage-filled gamblers was one thing, but this was another.

Fists clenched, instinctively.

The white flesh that punctuated each knuckle became evident, the bones of each hand protruded in nothing but complete aggression. Hands that waged war, bound. Even now, even in that groggy state of mid-awareness that rage washed over anew.

It was most forthcoming in her jaw. That gathering of still natural teeth that curl lips or left them pale as knuckles. The lower jaw strut forth, arrogant and full of venom, like that of a wild animal. The wrinkle of the brow, lines that would be one day hard etched in nothing but anger,

She thrashed, or tried to at the very least.

“FETH!” Rodarch raged, fighting against those restraints,”FETH!” Again! For good measure! Wide-eyes, sapphire in nature but scarlet in rage fought an ultimately futile battle against the bonds that held her,

“FETH!”

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

"Dearie, please. Do keep struggling. It makes this all the more satisfying for me," was the Acolyte's chillingly calm and polite response to Samantha's outburst.

Her voice was the most disturbing thing about her. It was true, she looked somewhat like a walking corpse, but her voice was...entirely ordinary. Crisp and clear, with a polished Coruscanti accent - she sounded like she should be giving speeches at Senate meetings, not kidnapping shockboxers from the slums.

The Apprentice casually approached the struggling Mandalorian, and tapped her quarry's cheek with a metallic black finger.

"I wonder how long you can go before you start suffering from withdrawal?" She sounded genuinely, almost innocently curious - as if she had no idea that what she was doing was even remotely morally questionable. That was an affectation, of course. People tended to panic when they thought a madman or a sociopath had kidnapped them, rather than someone 'just doing their job' or something similar. "I suppose we'll find out, shan't we? Normally, I'd apply a bit of pain to soften you up, first," She paused, raising her left arm into view - it crackled with red lightning. Upon getting a reaction from her prey, she'd smile and continue. "But you seem like the sort of girl who isn't all that bothered by that sort of thing. You'll be a bit more of a challenge than I'm used to."

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Dearie?

Oh no.

As if the Mandalorian was not already incensed enough as it was, things were taken to a new level. A friendless and bitter hot-head with more pride than sense being taunted with pet names? Oh no no no.

Eyebrows shot upwards, her face becoming a strong mask of indignation mixed with a shock as the struggle stopped to make room for her offense. Already widened-eyes spat pure fury in the direction of her captor, a woman with a serious vitamin deficiency that spoke like she was birthed out of her own arsehole. A definite match made in heaven here.

The thrashing resumed once more as she approached, in the vain hope that her bonds would break and so that Sam's hands might have ended up around her throat. Unfortunately that was only a fleeting fantasy and instead she received a literal finger laid upon her.

Mocking.

Before a steady stream of violent threats and expletives could spew forth from her iron jaw the woman spoke again.

Talking withdrawals and pain. Playing some cocky game that she only could have afforded with the help of some restraints. Incensed wasn't even the word. It wasn't until the red threat sparked that she even felt anything besides anger. Now there was a modicum of curiosity. Sith? That was a surprise. Why Sith? Why her?

Questions. The first step.

“Oh yeah?” Sam spoke, voice dangerously low and wavering with rage, “You real sore? You lose your bet? You gotta...sneak about in the fuggin' dark an...”

Suddenly Rodarch surged again, so violently that it seemed like it might have hurt. Still, the bonds held. It was somewhat difficult to ambush somebody when you were confined in such a way.

“If you gotta problem....then we can hash it all out...RIGHT KARKIN' HERE!”

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

The Sithling's prey was fighting. Resisting. It was useless, of course, but she had to appreciate the utter rage pouring off of the Mandalorian. The Apprentice tapped Sam's cheek one more time, before she shifted her metallic hand ever so slightly, so that she was holding her quarry's jaw. And then she squeezed. Not hard enough to break any bone, mind you - it was more to demonstrate that she could, rather than that she would.
"Actually, sweetie, I put my money on you. It was a good bet, too - you were absolutely vicious. Ferocity worthy of any Sith Warrior." And there it was - real, genuine praise for the woman the Apprentice had bound and helpless in what was undoubtedly a room designed to cause misery and suffering. "It's a pity, really, that you can't touch the Force - you might have turned out to be a truly glorious Sith." A small, slightly disappointed sigh escaped the Acolyte, before she shrugged.

"No point in dwelling on what could've been, however - I'm certain you'll make an exceptional slave, instead." One last squeeze, hard enough to leave a mark upon Sam's jaw, and then the Apprentice backed away.

"What is your name, girl?"

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Well, at least Rodarch could have been thankful that she did not instinctively bite the woman's finger only a minute prior. She had not fully comprehended her captor's cybernetics until the grip was upon her jaw. At least this would save her a few teeth, maybe.

In saying all of this however, Sam was not thankful. She was hardly the patron saint of gratitude, was she?

Pride, on the other hand...

The constricting hand felt like some kind of challenge issued. As to what challenges were available when one competitor was completely restrained was unknown, but all the Mandalorian could do was stare. Barbarous blues pouring into malevolent yellows. If only her fists were free, then it would have been a different story, a challenge to uptake. Alas, it was only pride talking.

And pride didn't like being called sweetie.

There were quite a few incidental bright sides to be absorbed in that moment, not biting cybernetic digits aside. At least her new tormentor had backed Rodarch to win and considered her to be a vicious fighter? No? No. The upside game wasn't really being played in this environment. Or ever.

It wasn't until the word slave came into play that Sam's features really changed, eyes almost bulging in an expression that said something between 'how very dare you' and 'I WILL FETHING EAT YOU ALIVE'.

A slave. Was this her game? Fists became balled so tight that it was a wonder the woman's hands didn't explode and indignant fury was written hard across her face at the very concept. A slave? No. No, she would die before then. A creature of battle born ego. Oh no, this wouldn't be happening at all.

“Go kark yourself,” Sam spat, both in tone of voice and with a follow up of meager saliva aimed at the woman's face.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

If you asked the Apprentice, her reaction to being spat upon was entirely reasonable and proportionate.

Whether that was objectively true was another question, and an irrelevant one.

"I am a reasonable, patient woman, I like to believe. I understand your anger, your frustrations. But, and I must emphasize this, I am your superior," She snarled the last phrase out, and then slammed her cyber-hand, open palmed, against her victim's throat. "And if you so much as breathe messily on me again, I will start taking you apart. Is that understood? Good. Now..." She took a deep breath, squeezed her victim's throat, and then stepped back once more. "You will not sleep. You will eat and drink only the barest minimum required for survival, and you will have not a moment of respite. For as long as I desire, every fiber of your being will beg for relief. And when I am through with you, you will thank me for it. Now - do you prefer Warbat, or Gammorrean opera? Ah, silly me. Why not both?"

The Acolyte smiled a warm, kind smile as she looked at her victim, and suddenly the room was filled with noise. Loud, uncomfortable, and cacophonous - half of it was composed of animalistic grunts and snorts set to a primitive, tribal beat, while the other half was made up of cold, emotionless beeps and whirs and clicking noises with no discernible pattern. And by the Force, it was loud. Ear-splittingly loud, in fact, but the Apprentice was still looking at the Mandalorian before her with the same smile, as if the noise simply wasn't there.

And then...she simply left the room. No more monologuing, no more playful flirting or terrifying threats. In fact, Samantha was left completely and utterly alone with that horrible noise.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Foolish, yes. Satisfying, also yes.

Very much in the moment, Sam held little regret in her actions. Nothing like a little spittle to mark your defiance perfectly. Consequences? They don't live in the now. However, when you didn't come to consequences, they would come to you and on this particular occasion consequences had just crashed into her throat in the shape of a cybernetic hand.

Being decked in the throat was not, by any means, a pleasant experience. In fact, most things that inhibit breathing miss that category. Offended airways simultaneously jerked and begged for breath which elicited a rather ragged wheezing coughing fit.

Likely not wise to spit upon the presumed Sith again.

Oh, but rage was so defiant.

It was perhaps quite a bold move to inform your victim of your torture regimen before it had even begun. Of course, not having tormented anybody (with fists aside) it was difficult for her to say whether it was a bad move or not. After all, one could hardly prepare for anything when they were bolted to a wall.

Then it started.

The Mandalorian wasn't very musically inclined, and entirely unfamiliar with both Warbat and Gamorrean opera. Feral features switched to confusion. Music? You can't hurt somebody with music. At least, that was her opinion upon the matter. Maybe her captor was not a Sith, but perhaps an abysmal DJ and this was the only way people would listen to her mixtape.

There would be little expansion on this theory, as the walking death left the room immediately after, abandoning Sam to the music.

It was uncomfortably loud, and it wasn't at all pleasant or even made sense to listen to. The rhythm was mad, the genres clashed and the volume made thinking much more difficult than it normally was.

While still trying to catch breath for a protesting throat that familiar ache niggled once more, it had been denied in the midst of her rage but now it returned. That stim-related hangover, the very one that could only really be cured by another dose. It never held a recreational purpose, it was always for the edge in the fight.

But somewhere between beggars and choosers were side-effects. They were cheap street stimulants that sat as one part battle-stim, two parts amphetamines, one part steroids and who knows what else but they were a necessity.

A necessity lacking.

Muscles that screamed for respite felt tight and weak, and a gradual nasuea slipped in, only exacerbated by the incomprehensible din that surrounded her. This was about the time where Rodarch would have granted herself a top-up, but alas, there was no such luck.

“Suck it up.”

But she'd never gone too long without and the symptoms beyond were not a pleasant outlook.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

The Apprentice figured 48 hours was long enough for the, well, everything deprivation to get under her prey's skin.

So she waited 60.

And when she finally reappeared before her victim, she did so in the most delightfully cruel way she could think to. The 'music,' if it could be called that, was turned off for the duration of her visit, one of the few small mercies Vitium's Apprentice deigned to grant the woman.

The Acolyte appeared well rested, well fed, and, well, every bit like she hadn't spent the last two and a half days listening to horrible music and slowly approaching starvation. What's more, she came in with food. Fine, rich, fatty foods and clear, crisp water. The aroma alone was torturous enough that, in all likelihood, what the Apprentice did next was unnecessary.

She ate, slowly and deliberately savoring every bite right before Samantha's eyes.

"So, how've you been, sweetie? I've been great, myself - I found this wonderful little diner nearby that has the best bread I've tasted in ages. Oh! Did you like the music I left you, by the way? I picked it out, just for you."

To a careful eye - that is, one not clouded by exhaustion and hunger - it was obvious that everything the woman was saying and doing was calculated for maximum effect. She could've tried harder to hide it, but, well, why bother? Her prey didn't appear particularly bright in the first place, and nothing she'd inflicted so far was likely to help improve her perception. "I'm sorry I didn't bring you anything to eat, by the way. It just slipped my mind. You can have some of my food, though, if you want. But only if you ask nicely."

The subtext was obvious. You live because I allow it. Beg that I continue to do so.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Never mind forty-eight hours. After about forty-eight minutes Sam had already lost any sense of time.

At first she had attempted to track the ridiculous music, to find the point of looping so that she had some idea. However, the two choices of tracks were so random, not adhering by the rules of rhythm and beat that it was impossible to anchor a start or an end. It was just noise.

Then it was counting, which on balance, even had it been successful was probably not a wise idea on a sanity basis. However, coherent uninterrupted thoughts were something of an impossibility in the scenario. The absolute racket, working in tandem with withdrawal, fatigue and a growing sense of hunger and thirst prevented the Mandalorian from getting very far past twenty.

Then past ten.

Then to ten.

By this point time had passed. Indiscernible. Maddening. Hunger pangs began to surface, and a dry mouth gave way to regret for that glob of spittle that she had so carelessly thrown away before. Aches and pains throbbed and pulsed, stronger and harder as lost time went on, even eventually merging with the very music itself.

Foolishly, with ragged emotion still in tow, the woman tried one more effort to free herself through copious thrashing but it was flat and failed as tired muscles refused to play the same game. It was akin to a dying fish flopping upon a ship's deck.

And it only got worse.

Eyelids hooded, the grip of fatigue demanded sleep, her head bobbing every few minutes but jerking back up as the onslaught could only continued. Thinking was impossible. There was only a bombardment of increasingly horrific stimuli.

When the music stopped, it felt like a beating had stopped. Sam was accustomed to the occasional beating and there was no comparison. That was the feeling. Relief.

The smell hit her before the sight. Food. In that woman the young woman had never wanted for anything more in her entire life. Sam could only watch with bloodshot eyes in nothing more than pure want as her captor oh-so-slowly enjoyed the relative feast.

There was no rage to be found at her tormentor's presence and no expletives launched either, there was simply no energy there for it. She wanted the food. She wanted the water. More than anything, more than pride wanted to hold, for pride too was shackled.

The Mandalorian wasn't designed for a beating of this nature.

Sam's lack of hesitation in that moment would probably haunt her until she died, but for all the woman knew, she could have been dying that day. A barely held together stare was still focused, not upon the woman, but upon her bounty.

“...please...can...I have...food...”

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

There was little that was more beautiful to the Acolyte than a proud figure broken down, brought to their knees by her hand.

And Samantha Rodarch's current predicament? That was beautiful. That was art. And the begging. It made a girl weak in the knees.

The Apprentice let her quarry eat, and drink. Not enough to fully satisfy her, of course, but enough that Samantha could be fully certain she wasn't going to die that day. She still had to eat from her captor's hand, of course. The Apprentice wasn't so foolish that she would free her newest acquisition just yet. That little act of kindness, if it could be called that, completed, and the Acolyte smiled a warm smile.

"See, now isn't that so much easier than struggling and fighting? Keep cooperating, and you might even earn a dose of stimulants." And there was the bait. She'd, eventually, learn to obey the Apprentice like it was second nature, but for now the woman was happy to keep her new pet under control with a healthy dose of bribery. "So let's start again, sweetie - what's your name?"

--

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

In that moment pride was completely absent.

For if pride knew, if pride saw her eating directly out of the hand of their tormentor the damage would have been irreparable. Of course, this was all assuming that pride wouldn't return and wouldn't remember. Not that Sam cared at that moment in time.

There was hunger, and there was food.

There was thirst, and there was water.

And it had never tasted so good.

In truth it was somewhere between bare morsels and a small snack. Nowhere near enough to properly appease the craving that sat within her empty stomach, but enough to placate the desperation and provide a sick sense of almost-gratitude within a mind incapable of coherent thought.

Sweetie may have no longer garnered a reaction, but the possibility of stimulants certainly did. Rodarch's head tilted up slightly, as much as could be managed to look at the other woman with a distinct look of need held within fatigued eyes. A pick-me-up. Just something to numb the aches, to send the beast of withdrawal back into its pit for another few days. Anything.

What price was cooperation, really?

“....Sam....Rodarch...” the Mandalorian complied quietly, head drooping back down under the weight of sheer exhaustion.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

"No, it isn't."

The Apprentice's response was blunt and brutal, but delivered in the same sweet tone that she had been using. The denial of a name, of the very center of a being's identity, was actually a trick that she'd learned from her Sith Mistress, Darth Vitium - the Apprentice still didn't have a name, and hadn't for...a year, now, she thought it was? It was painful thought, that she'd been without independent identity for a year now, but that was the point. Until she became a proper Sith, she didn't deserve a name. Yes, it was a painful thing to undergo, but it was for a greater purpose.

And if she didn't have a name, her slave certainly wouldn't.

"That may have been your name before, but no longer. You don't have a name. A title, maybe, if you prove yourself loyal. A callsign. But names are for people. And you are nothing. So..." The Acolyte shifted in her spot, and tapped her victim playfully on the cheek. "Let's try this again: What's your name, sweetie?"

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

At first she was confused.

In the young woman's state it was entirely possible that yes, she had not given her captor the correct name. Her brain wasn't exactly functioning at the normal rate at that moment in time. However, before she had the chance to consider it the other woman spoke again. Elaborating for those who perhaps weren't the sharpest in that moment (namely Sam).

You don't have a name.

But names are for people.

And you are nothing.

In that moment Rodarch's face screwed up, akin to somebody experiencing a vicious migraine, the tap upon her cheek barely registering at all.

From observation, it was difficult to know if the Mandalorian fully knew the consequences of what that meant. What was in a name? Who you were as a person? Did a name hold your humanity? She didn't know, didn't even consider it. At that moment she considered stims and a warm bed, and only one person in that room had the power to grant such.

If she just said what her captor wanted...

It didn't mean anything...did it?

“...I don't...have a....name...?” Her reply came punctuated as a question, but not intentionally. Less that she was asking for some kind of conformation of such, and more that she was asking if she had said the right thing.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

"That's exactly right, my dear," began the Acolyte's response as she gave her victim a condescending pat on the cheek. "You don't have a name." She repeated the humiliating phrase, but there was something...different about her voice. There was power behind it, the sort of power that made you simply believe what you were being told.

It was, of course, the Mind Trick, or as the Apprentice preferred to call it - Dominate Mind. It was her specialty, the first power of the Force that she ever learned, and her favorite. Whilst her power to twist the minds of others wasn't exceptionally powerful, yet, it was still respectable, and unless Samantha Rodarch happened to be particularly strong-minded, 60 hours of deprivation was probably enough to weaken her to the point of susceptibility.

"And, as a reward for your cooperation, after we finish up here, you get to sleep. You'll remain restrained, of course. I still don't trust you not to have a bit of a fit, but I imagine you'll take what you can get. Isn't that right?"

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]