Tell Me Where It Hurts

[Sam Rodarch]

You don't have a name.

Was that right? It seemed right...

Those words resonated within her head far more than they ever should have. It was the only notion in there that actually seemed to stick, all other thoughts being dragged to oblivion under the weight of fatigue and confusion. Caught in a haze it seemed as if the young woman was nodding at the very statement, head bobbing lazily in what was a very small motion, one that she herself didn't even catch.

Not that she was noticing very much at all.

Certain words stuck out, words that in that moment were more important than others. Reward. Cooperation. Sleep. Yes, yes that was what she desired. Sleep. No music, no aches, no pain, no need. Just rest, just to close her eyes for a little while and switch it all off. She had been compliant, answered the questions, said the right words.

“...yes...” the Mandalorian replied slowly, darkened hooded eyelids heavy as she tried to look to her captor.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

There were no more words that night. Or was it day? It was hard to tell, stuck in a room without access to the outside world. All there was for Samantha Rodarch, or the woman who used to be Samantha Rodarch, was a peaceful, dark, and quiet oblivion that beckoned her to sleep.

That restful sleep, however, was not to last long - six hours and fifteen minutes, on the dot, was all the sleep that the Mandalorian got, although it was certainly a blessing for the woman nonetheless. What she awoke to, however, was undoubtedly confusing.

The torture chamber she'd found herself in had gone under a bit of a decor change during her nap - gone were the various torture implements, and in their place was...a table, and a pair of chairs. One of the chairs, admittedly, had shackles attached to it, but it was a chair nonetheless, and likely far more comfortable than being forced to stand for another sixty or so hours.

And standing in the doorway was the Apprentice, looking a bit ragged, actually. Instead of her stylish coat and casual underclothes, she was wearing an exceptionally practical armorweave-and-armorplast ensemble, with the curved hilt of a lightsaber hanging on her belt.

But none of that was important.

What was important was what the grey skinned girl held in her hand; a syringe, twirled playfully between her fingers. It only could've been one thing, really. And in her other hand? A set of keys.

"Hello, dearie. I sincerely hope you enjoyed your rest." Voice as sweet as ever, but still mocking, the Acolyte approached her victim, a warm and kindly smile gracing her features.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Desperately craved sleep came so swiftly that the woman had so little recollection of the moments before. Even the discomfort that came with standing, and being essentially bolted to the wall had little impact upon her sleep. Even the aches and pains of withdrawal stayed at bay and addiction was rarely ever so considerate. However, need dwarfed addiction and thus there was only sleep.

Not even dreams.

Just the enveloping blackness, the absence of everything. Blissful rest. No thoughts, just sleep. Perhaps a pity that the shockboxer wasn't able to acknowledge just how good it was.

Even if it wasn't quite enough.

The dull throbs of pain gifted by past punishment and need signified the end of sleep. Muscles felt stiff and exhausted, her still relatively fresh head wound twinged and stomach swirled with a slight familiar nausea. Her neck, from having been hung low during unconsciousness felt taut and sore, mouth drier than a Tatooine drought.

That refreshment that sleep provided left her a slight more aware than she had been prior, the word dearie bringing about a feeling of strange sickness. However, while perception may have been somewhere slightly better than karked, her vitality was completely absent. Pride considered stirring, but then retreated to her shell, vague recollections of before denying any shade of dignity that thought about an uprising.

Sleep-laden eyes observed the room, to the furniture that hadn't been there prior while still trying to remember what had been there before. It was strange difficult to recall. Finally, those battered blues turned to look to her tormentor, but only managed a short glance before returning to the floor.

She didn't speak.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Broken. That was all Vitium's Apprentice could think, observing the once proud Mandalorian that now submitted so easily, after only a bit of pain and suffering. Perhaps she thought she was strong and resilient before now, but...no. The Mandalorian knew nothing of strength, of power.

She would, however, after the Acolyte was through with her. For the grey skinned young woman saw potential in her newest pet - not the sort of potential she might have seen in, say, a Force Sensitive, but potential nonetheless. The Mandalorian could be a great servant of the Darkness, even if she herself could never feel its embrace. But that would come later. For now, the Apprentice still had to finish breaking her servant, and only then could she rebuild her.

The Apprentice watched with a cold and dispassionate gaze as the Mandalorian fell to the ground, her legs too weak after days in bondage to support her once she was freed. Then, just as dispassionately, but with a surprising tenderness, she helped her quarry to a seat at the table - which she then bound her arms to, quite securely, should the woman show no resistance.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Truth be told, she hadn't initially noted that which her captor held. Namely freedom and a vice. Sam might have been more aware than previously, but she still lacked the perception to pick up on such important details. However, eyes were averting in more of a knowing shame than a complete lack of cognitive abilities.

Regardless, the keys beckoned and she was unleashed.

A pity that her limbs lost a battle with futility over the unknown period of time, for when the Mandalorian was released from her bonds, her legs gave out. A wobble and then a collapse, falling to the floor like some weak, pitiful creatures. The floor impacted with her knees and in that moment Rodarch felt truly pathetic.

Shame burned like a brand upon her psyche, rage bubbling softly beneath. At least it was still there, for now.

But this wasn't a game that she played, in that woman the woman knew this. She dealt in a physical game, one that made nerves scream, that cracked bones, drew blood and left angry welts and bruises upon flesh. This wasn't her captor's game. Sam knew that she couldn't handle it, that it was a storm that could not be weathered. She didn't know much, but she knew that much.

It was fleeting opportunity, as the woman helped her towards the chair. It felt like now or never, like desperation was overriding all other senses.

But there was doubt. It had never been there before. Prior to a fight there was never held a disbelief that she couldn't do it. But here, but now. Was she strong enough? Limbs weak. Bones aching. She didn't know, but it was a chance to take, while she could still take them.

Resistance.

As she was sat into the chair it happened. Not as quick as she would have in the squared circle, but it happened. A fist, her right fist, it came rocketing outwards, not with the strength that would have usually been mustered but with desperation. It sought connection with her tormentor's chin, a solid uppercut to clash teeth together and rock the head backwards.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

A multitude of thoughts and emotions went through the Apprentice's head as she staggered back, momentarily stunned by the fist sent shooting towards her jaw. The first, of course, was ow, quickly followed by a series of expletives which shan't be reproduced here, for the sake of the children. But after the split second of shock and rage had passed, something else replaced it, something which, in all likelihood, was a testament to the less-than-beneficial effect of the Dark Side on a sentient mind.

What followed was amusement. The Acolyte had been almost convinced that the Mandalorian was already broken, and that would've been so incredibly boring.

After briefly rubbing her chin, the Apprentice looked down at her prey, and struck with her cybernetic fist, aimed for the side of the Mandalorian's head. Now, she wasn't a boxer - she'd never studied any form of combat beyond blaster-fighting and lightsaber forms. But even admitting all of that, she was still throwing a powerful punch, stronger than anything an unaugmented human could manage and delivered by a fist made of terentatek ivory and phrik-laced alusteel.

Of course, clenching her fist crushed the stim contained within, which was an unintended but welcome side-effect of the strike. A bit of extra punishment, on top of the purely physical she was planning to deliver.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Fist connected.

Primal satisfaction.

This was the chance, if she could turn it around here and now she would be safe. The odds weren't kind, no, her legs were still half-jelly and morsel of food and water she had received prior hardly filled her engine. It was a struggle enough to stand and get out of the chair, never mind fist fighting a Sith for freedom.

Then a freighter crashed into the side of her head.

Weakened legs staggered and but miraculously never buckled. That old familiar sensation trickled down the side of her head, hot and wet. The old crimson. It was a blow that might have knocked a different person into a new calendar year, but not Sam. This was what she did. This was her game. This was her life.

Pain called for adrenaline, and there was an answer. Fight or flight. There was only one answer.

The wild expression upon her features screamed, 'go on, do it a-fething-gain' but there was a gleam of panic there, one that had never be present in the face of a fight. There was doubt, there was fear and Rodarch was aware. It niggled, it knew that the woman wasn't anywhere near fighting form. Barely awakened, still hungry, still thirsty, body aching for stims that were now out of the question. I can't do it. Never a thought that had graced her mind before.

Still, she charged forth, with hands raised and primed for impact. At the last moment, she half-ducked, half-weaved to the side, throwing her right fist out and aimed at the Sith's lower abdomen for a hard body blow.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Were she a more practical woman, the Apprentice would've simply electrocuted her defiant prey, or perhaps she might simply ignite her lightsaber or activate the paddle-beamer in her right arm. Any of those methods would be quick, efficient, and easy.

But alas, none of them would be entertaining, and so the Acolyte opted, instead, for a fight. She could use any of those other, boring methods as a fallback, after all. A harsh blow to the kidney had her doubled over, but she quickly recovered, obviously in pain but still in fighting condition.

"I told you, grotthu, that I would take you apart, piece by piece." The grey-skinned woman hissed her threat through gritted teeth. "If you submit now, I might still show you the mercy you don't deserve." Of course, that was a lie. She wasn't going to kill her newest acquisition, of course, but this assault warranted severe disciplinary action.

Her physical response to that assault was simple, taking the form of a cybernetically-enahced right hook aimed at the woman's rib-cage. At least, it was a sloppy approximation of a right-hook - the girl, it was obvious, had likely never been in a fist-fight in her life. Not only was her attack sloppy, but it was highly telegraphed, giving her prey ample opportunity to block or attempt to avoid the blow.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The fist sunk into flesh, as teeth grit together with a terrible intensity. Not enough. Weak.

Rage. There was rage. It roared, it shook mental foundations to the core, tearing down walls of reason and logic. It was eyes wide, and teeth clenched so hard that they threatened to break. It was fists that trembled, that thirsted to break down walls and skulls. It was alive, it was unforgiving. Hatred.

The fist came crashing into her ribs, stopping hits wasn't a priority. Giving them was. There was a crack. A sharp exclamation point of pain. It fed, it fed into fury and fear. She exhaled upon the blow through her teeth, spraying and spittle and ire forth. Broken. Could be worse. Especially now.

Instinctively, Sam grabbed onto the seemingly unfeeling arm that had just assaulted her with both hands. There was pain. Head, split and bleeding. Ribs, cracked and broken. Muscles, aching and needing. But there was molten rage and animal frenzy. Panic. Venom. A stare of a wild animal backed into a corner with nowhere else to go.

“I'm Sam FETHING Rodarch,” she said, furious spittle escaping from the gaps within a clamped jaw.

With that the Mandalorian pulled herself forward using the woman's arm, no fists involved, but instead a skull. The violent woman moved, thrusting her skull towards her captor's, hoping to smash her forehead across the bridge of the woman's nose.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Pain. Roaring, blinding pain that blotted out all reason for a brief but agonizing second. Sticky red crimson flowed from the Apprentice's now crushed nose as she stumbled away, using the strength of her cybernetic enhancement to shake off the Mandalorian and make space between the two. When she fully returned to the realm of reason, there was only one response that was acceptable, really.

"No," The Acolyte hissed as she clenched her right fist. The 'no,' however, was not directed towards the Mandalorian, but towards herself. She would not be defeated by this beast, by a brute with no discipline - and she certainly wouldn't sink to that brute's level. Rage threatened to overwhelm her, welling up inside her chest like a tidal wave. But she was Sith. She was an agent of the Dark Side, and she would not allow her emotions to control her.

In the brief microsecond following that thought, something shifted in the Force. The veins surrounding the Acolyte's eyes blackened, furthering her ghastly appearance. She took a half step forward...

And suddenly there she was, face to face with Rodarch once more, her black alusteel arm lunging forward in an attempt to seize her quarry's jaw. The Apprentice had moved with blinding speed, both unintentionally and with great cost to her wellbeing. That minor expenditure of power, that manifestation of Force Speed, had her breathing heavily, chest heaving with effort. If she successfully gripped the Mandalorian's jaw, the next step would be simple.

Squeeze, as hard as she could.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Head connected, the absolute pleasure of that sweet crunch taking over all other notions within the young woman's mind. It was that moment, the feeling of the impact that granted her the greatest pleasure in the fight. That moment drowned out everything else, but never lasted long enough to fully satisfy. Violence, alongside rage was a part of her core.

It was all very short-lived however.

In the blink of an eye the Sith stood directly before her, not having experienced her kind before in the flesh, it was somewhat startling and it caused the Mandalorian to take a small step backwards. Not that it helped.

The arm thrust forth, her captor's hand successfully gripping Sam's jaw.

Needless to say, what followed was not a pleasant sensation. An immense pressure, less like being choked and more akin to being caught by a hydraulic press. Protests of pain screamed forth from her lower jaw, as the bone seemed on the verge of being completely crushed. That at least elicited a suffering howl from her furious maw.

Both hands gripped and clawed at the cybernetic arm, trying to remove the Sith's hold upon her, but flesh was a futility in the scenario and she could not budge the limb. Feet lashed out, with Sam desperately trying to land a hard kick to her tormentor's knees, but the desperation only made the attack sloppier.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Darth Vitium's Apprentice had had many experiences - some good, some bad, some neutral - in her life. Some of her fondest were her first kiss; the first time she held Loxley, when she was just a pup; and the moment she discovered that she could touch the Force. Beyond that, the rush of combat, the embrace of a lover, the thrill of discovery - these all brought her satisfaction.

And then there was the feeling of crushing someone. Literally or metaphorically, it didn't matter - the look of defeat in a foe's eyes was just as satisfying as the feeling of bone cracking in her hand. It would be an understatement to say that she enjoyed the feeling - it completed her, silenced the gnawing hunger for domination that occasionally reared its ugly head. There was no substitute for it, nothing that could compare to the utter peace that it brought her, if only momentarily.

The kick to the Apprentice's knee hurt, and the grey-skinned young woman released a snarl of pain, but nothing was going to take this victory from her. Still she held the woman's jaw in her vice-like grip, slowly crushing bone and mutilating flesh. Her snarl morphed into a grin as she began to speak, still breathing heavily.

"You," she began, her voice brimming with carefully contained fury, "are nothing. You are weak. And you appear too stupid to understand kindness. So I'll no longer be kind, grotthu." Nothing. Weak. Stupid. And finally, the Sith word for 'slave.' With each of those words, she made an attempt to slam Mandalorian into the wall behind her. "You are mine," were the final words she delivered, and then there was nothing but crushing, brutal pain.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It was complete futility. Wildly lashing feet didn't have enough in them to break the woman's crushing hold upon her jaw. Fear swiftly overcame Rodarch's rage as she found little way to free herself.

As one would expect, the pain was horrendous. It wasn't the sharp, sudden feeling of a hard blow and nor was it the prolonged dull ache that would follow afterwards. It was a horrific build, pure and physical agony escalating past points that were unfamiliar even for her. However, even then it wasn't the pain that was the most harrowing point in that moment.

It was the sound.

The slow gradual crunching and popping of her own jawbone reverberated up to her ears. Not that Sam had never heard the sound of breaking bones before, but this was different. It was slow, malicious and accompanied by the vicious sensation of having one's lower jaw crushed. That sound would be hard shifted from her memory.

Perhaps it was blissful that the woman couldn't actually see the damage for herself.

No. There was no bliss to be found, that much was evident by the screaming.

Nothing. The Mandalorian was definitely aware of being slammed against the wall, she could feel the back of her head and back crash against it, but the extra brutality was somewhat lost upon her. Weak. She was no longer standing on her own accord, instead still being gripped by her now-mangled jaw. Stupid. Sam's hands were still upon the Sith's cybernetic arm, now simply pawing weakly instead of trying to pry it off.

Grotthu.

The screaming had slowly subsided with each successive impact against the wall, each time the back of her head cracked against it degenerating those howls of pain into a rasping and grating whine that sounded much more animal than human.

“...shh....o-o....o....” In trying to speak Sam could feel vaguely where her lower set of teeth were, tears welled up in her eyes, “....he.....he....l....”

Mine.

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Some part of the Apprentice felt guilt regarding what she had just done. Not, of course, nearly as much as she likely should've, but the remorse was present nonetheless. Part of her knew that what she had done was an overreaction, an excessive response to an animal lashing out in fear - she'd never been so cruel to Loxley, her beloved hound, even when the beast was at her worst. But, unfortunately for Samantha and fortunately for the fragile state of the Acolyte's psyche, the grey-skinned young woman reminded herself that what she did had purpose - her cruelty, no matter how satisfying or depraved, was not without reason. The Apprentice needed a power-base, and to build that power-base, she needed soldiers, servants, an Apprentice - Rodarch could never become the latter, but she would make an excellent warrior, once a few...modifications were made.

In what was probably the biggest act of kindness the Apprentice had shown her quarry so far, she fired off the paddle-beamer in her arm point blank at Rodarch's face, granting the young woman blissful, painless unconsciousness.

Making her suffer through what was about to happen to her was a pointless cruelty, after all.

---

The Mandalorian, when she finally woke, would find herself bound once more, this time on an operating table that looked distressingly like a coffee table, located in an operating room that looked distressing like someone's garage. Beyond that, there were two facts that the Mandalorian might notice.

One was that she had a jaw again. It wasn't an organic jaw - it was cool and metallic, sleek black in color (to match the Apprentice's own replacement) and exceptionally sturdy - but it was a jaw nonetheless, if not one that moved - Samantha would find that, if she attempted to speak, she'd have to do so through a vocabulator.

The other fact was that she still seemed to be mid-operation, if the various 'doctors' standing around her, all holding some not-quite-sanitary looking equipment, were any indication. Speaking of 'not quite sanitary,' if Samantha bothered to look down, she'd see that her hands and forearms were currently undergoing some serious modification. Durasteel plates of various sizes being grafted to her arms, for one thing. And there was no pain - just pressure, like someone was squeezing down on her arm.

"Yes, I'm fully aware that these will be clunky," came the Apprentice's voice, from somewhere out of Samantha's field of vision. "Do I care? Not particularly. I'm sure she'll make a fuss about it, but she'll adjust. I'm not keeping her around for anything that requires much manual dexterity, after all."

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It was perhaps a small, unfortunate miracle that Rodarch herself didn't pass out from the pain alone. If there was a time where she wouldn't have desired to be so physically tenacious then it was right about there. Not a glass jaw, no, rather a mangled one.

Thankfully the agony came to an end. Not that she would be feeling particularly thankful for anything granted by the Sith at that point in time. Actually the only feelings present at that moment before the black out were horror and anguish. So it was truly tragic that her abuser's kindness would never be taken on board.

There were no dreams whilst Sam was dead to the galaxy. Just that vast unconscious blackness that engulfed, that lasted forever while simultaneously only lasting for a second. Perhaps it was untruthful to say that there we no dreams at all however...

A voice. It suddenly reverberated, coming out of nowhere and from everywhere all at the same time, resounding, dominating.

You don't have a name.

She awoke with a jolt, which was, in all honestly a jolt of the mind rather than the body. In a physical sense the Mandalorian seemed more like a heavily intoxicated coma patient. There wasn't full awareness, a lack of recollection regarding recent events. For a few seconds emerald eyes were dragged around sockets in a lazy, blurry-sighted manner.

The voice that roused her still rebounded around Sam's mind. In fact, it was talking. Clunky? A fuss? There was pressure. Her arms. No pain, in fact little in the way of actual sensation at all, just pushing and pulling. Strange.

It was around about that point where memory began to function. That voice, it was that woman, that Sith. Her tormentor. Panic slowly seeped in as the shockboxer's head lolled to the side. Pain, there had been pain. Her jaw. That sound. Oh Force, that sound. Breathing escalated, air being audibly pushed in and out of increasingly frantic nostrils.

Dark, hooded eyelids began to recede in terror as Sam tried to move her jaw. Nothing. No, it wasn't nothing, there was something there, the cold against her upper lip...but she couldn't move it. She feared to know what it was but at the same time needed to know what had happened to her face.

Finding herself confined to a table, all Rodarch could do was look down. There were people. People! There was a very short-lived flutter of hope, in fact it died at the exact moment in which she saw the tools in their hands. What were they doing to her arms? Why didn't they help her?!

Sam tried to speak, the total lack of lower jaw movement making it seem to be a total impossibility...but there still came sound...

“...help...”

Even then, while barely escaping the obscuring grogginess she could hear it. That robotic echo that came layered on top of her own voice, the one that didn't even leave her mouth. Once more panic and breathing escalated side-by-side.

What had they done?

What had she done?

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Oh.

That was not good at all. The Apprentice's quarry was not supposed to have awoken, not yet. She wasn't screaming in pain, so at least the anesthetics were still working. That could work to the Acolyte's advantage, actually...

The grey-skinned young woman sauntered into view, a kind, warm smile on her face. The expression certainly looked out of place, considering her appearance - the pallid skin of a corpse, yellow-irised eyes with dark veins. Not to mention the subtle distribution of similar black veins around her face, giving her the appearance of being ever so slightly cracked. So yes, if anything, the expression on her face only made it more unsettling, not that the Acolyte noticed - and it was questionable as to whether she even cared. And when she spoke, her voice was gentle and soothing - not to mentioned enhanced by the power of Mind Trick.

"Shh, my dear. Please stay calm. You're fine, there's no reason to panic. Everything is going to be alright, okay?"

Of course, her attempts to reassure her newest toy might be undermined by the fact that the operation had, indeed, continued even as Rodarch was awake. The plating bolted to the young woman's arms was removed, the wounds treated with basic first aid - powdered bacta, dressing and bandages. One of the 'doctors' mumbled something about 'inefficient design' and 'potential complications.'

"Really," said doctor, a Rodian, began, whilst paying no attention to the woman on the table. "Full prosthetic replacement would be a better route to go - I have a couple of spare PS-1Bs in the back. Her strength'll be through the karking roof, and the cardio-muscular package'll make sure her body's not left behind or torn to shreds because of it."

The Apprentice shot the Rodian a glare - she was trying to keep her quarry calm, and the casual talk of amputation certainly wasn't going to help. "Yes, yes, I suppose you're right. It's not quite as intimidating as what I wanted, but...it'll have to do." Her response was short and curt, accompanied by a nod. Then, she turned back to Rodarch, the smile returning to her face. "You will be fine," she promised her quarry, once more layering her voice with the Force. "But you'll likely want to return to sleep for this next part."

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Initially it was a very sinister moment when the Sith stepped into view, smiling like grandma holding a tray of freshly baked treats. Oh grandma, what an evil complexion you have! A smile like shouldn't be given by people who kidnap and horribly mutilate you. It was beyond unsettling and did nothing to quell the beast of fear that rampaged within her mind.

But then she spoke.

It was strange. Highly illogical. There should have been no circumstance in which that woman telling her to stay calm should have been applicable. And yet it was. In that moment, after hearing it out of the mouth of her captor, yes, she inexplicably believed that everything was going to be alright. Panic hadn't completely subsided, but at least it was soothed. At the very least, the Mandalorian wasn't going to experience some fear-based heart attack within the operating theatre.

Well...right about until one of the doctors spoke.

Full prosthetic replacement?

It's not generally what you want to hear when you're strapped down to a dubious operating table while people do the unknown to your deadened limbs. Rodarch tried to lift her head to get a better look down the table to see what was actually happening but it was fruitless. Her arms were fine...there was nothing wrong with them! Why would they want to cut them off!? What were they doing to her?!

Panic made a bid for a proper return within widened-eyes that darted around the room looking for answer, but once more it was foiled. You will be fine. The word fine seemed to reverberate within her skull. It didn't matter what was about to happen. She was going to be fine.

Sleep, yes, that sounded like a fine idea. No questioning what exactly the next part entailed, but sleep instead. Still, there was something in the back of Rodarch's mind that didn't budge, and as she closed her eyes upon the table it came out:

“....I want to...go home...”

---

[member="Mala Arar"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

The Apprentice frowned ever so slightly as she looked down at her shakily-compliant prey, and a twinge of guilt ran through her - she'd killed people. She'd hurt them, ruined their lives. But all of this seemed excessively cruel, even by her standards. Samantha Rodarch would, of course, never return to her home. It was all too likely, as well, that she'd never see her family or friends, either. It was necessary, however, and besides that - Rodarch couldn't touch the Force. She was inferior. It was an exceptional honor for one such as herself to personally serve a Sith, even if she didn't yet realize that.

That did not mean, however, that the Acolyte needed to be pointlessly cruel to her newest toy. She'd learned her lesson, she'd experienced the price of disobedience - for now, the girl could relax - and a small syringe to the neck made sure that Rodarch did exactly that, drifting, sooner or later, into blissful, inert sleep.

When the Mandalorian awoke, she'd do so with far more metal and far less flesh attached to her body. Bulky, metallic arms, to start with.

Then there was the feeling in her chest.

It wasn't an unpleasant one, not by any metric - but the beating of her heart, the rhythm of her breathing - they were artificial, too precise and measured to be organic.

And, finally, her eyes. Samantha Rodarch could see more clearly than ever before - but, of course, there was a downside. Her vision was pixelated, as if she were watching the world around her through a computer screen.

And she was completely, utterly alone, still bound to the same table as before.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]

 

[Sam Rodarch]

A small prick in the neck and sleep came once more, dispelling bodily fear and thoughts of home for the time being. Likely fortunate for her, given the discussion of amputation and full prosthetic limbs. Best not to think about it. Just sleep.

Better to dream, this time more vivid.

Warehouse. Run down. Dingy. Could barely see a few foot in front of you from the thick, suffocating haze of cigarra smoke. The ring stood before her in all of its ramshackle glory, ropes too tight, ring posts dented and a canvas still-stained with blood from years past. Complete familiarity. Home...

...and yet.

Something felt off. She didn't stand with confident and bullish aggression, there was no hard pulse of adrenaline and rage that roared for the first punch to be thrown, for the first blood to be shed. No, there was apprehension, there was fear. The Mandalorian stayed rooted to the spot, even as her opponent, features obscured by smoke stared down at her from inside completely still, unmoving.

It's not right.

Suddenly, a hand gripped her arm snapping sudden attention as she turned to face her assailant. There were no features, just shadows that seemed to shift through the smoke. In fact, nobody around them held a real face. Just ominous figures.

“Girl, what is your name?”

A simple question. Her mouth opened to speak but nothing came out. Her name. She knew her own name. Of course she did. Then...then why didn't it come? It wasn't even upon the tip of the shockboxer's tongue. This is wrong. Jeering and scorn-filled laughter emerged from all around her, louder, suffocating, taunting. What was her name? The woman shut her eyes, trying to think but it wasn't there! Panic. Thoughts paced faster. Frantic. What is it? Begins with.... No. No. No! It was all wrong! SHE KNEW HER OWN NAME!

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

Cruuuuunnnnnchhhh.


She awoke with start, thankfully still bound to that table otherwise she might have flung herself off. A small bead of nightmare-infused sweat rolled down the side of her brow. However, where a chest should have been heaving in short-frantic breaths there was a calm rhythm, and in the place of a hard-pounding heart was a clockwork beat.

“...I am Sam Rodarch,” that mechanically altered voice affirmed, although there was very little confidence to be found in those words.

It didn't click at first. Too many thoughts, too much disorientation to realise.

Jaw. That hadn't been a dream. The metal perched beneath her upper-lip was still evident, still unmoving. The anesthetic-tinged memory from previous started filtering through more and more. Arms. Prosthetics. No. Was that right?

Much to the girl's horror it was. Out of the corner of her gaze they had somehow eluded her, but upon actual inspection. More metal. All the way up to the shoulders. No flesh. No human. Just cold unfeeling metal. The first thought that came was the most human. Where are my arms? The second was just the first once more, but louder, more frantic.

Head twisted, eyes desperately searching around the room for another soul, one that might have provided explanation or told her that this wasn't really happened. They were frightened eyes. Eyes of prey. Eyes that sought with a much greater clarity than she had ever been accustomed to...

….not those too...

“No....no....no no no no no NO! NO!"

---

[member="Darth Imperia"]

 

[Darth Imperia]

Guilt.

That was an emotion that The Apprentice rarely felt, these days - but there it was. She listened to the panicked screams of her prey, and all she could feel was guilt. This girl wasn't an enemy - she wasn't a foe to be crushed. She wasn't an insolent, petty insect to be brushed aside - she was to be the Acolyte's favored servant, and the Acolyte, for all of her faults, was kind to her pets, even when those pets misbehaved. Once Rodarch had adjusted to her new life, the Apprentice would make amends for all of the suffering she'd inflicted on the girl - in her own way, at least.

For the moment, however, she had to calm down her pet - again. The woman was taking this far worse than the Acolyte had expected.

Strolling into view once more, the robed Sith looked down at her victim, an expression of actual, genuine concern gracing her features - her brow was furrowed, she bit down gently on her lower lip, and she approached the once-Mandalorian rather slowly, doing her best to assume a non-threatening posture.

"Sweetie, sweetie - I need you to calm down, okay? I understand that you've undergone some rather extensive changes, but I'm sure you'll find them all to be for the better - your sight is exceptional now, not to mention your strength. And as for your new jaw? You'd have lived as a disfigured freak without it, at best. At worst, you'd be dead. I understand your pain, I really do," The Apprentice paused and gestured with her mechanical arm to demonstrate her point. Her words were laced with the power of the Force, but she wasn't putting her all into it, not this time - partially because she didn't want to tire herself out (and thus, make herself appear weak in front of her servant-to-be), and partially because she didn't see any real reason to exert herself - in her mind, she was being perfectly reasonable. "But I do need you to calm down. Can you do that for me?"

The Apprentice continued her slow approach, and, if Rodarch didn't react with too much panic, she'd touch the girl's cheek - not in a mocking way, not as she did before, but in a genuine attempt to calm the girl.

---

[member="Sam Rodarch"]