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A year had passed since the assassination attempt on Chancellor Mohatu's life. The bombing had claimed the life of former Chancellor Alcor Bac, and had placed Chancellor Mohatu and his son, Jamall Junior, into a coma. Though their injuries were severe, with Jamall Junior's wounds being the worst, they had been recovering little by little, but still showed no signs of waking up.
Their hospitalization had hit Samanya hard. She was very close to her father and her brother. They had shaped her, defined her, made her the best that she could be. Junior, or 'Kamua' as Sam loved to call him, had taught her to be kind and gentle. He had taught her the arts of empathy and compassion, and he had trained her in the ways of the Force. Her father had taught her to fly and fight, to stand tall and never abandon what she believed in. Her father had taught her to be brave and loyal, to love and respect her friends and family, and to always be true to herself above all else.
Jamall and Kamua were two very different men. One was gentle, the other was strong. One was passionate, the other was patient. Their differences were innumerable, yet were combined together and personified in Samanya's indomitable spirit. She was their mirror image; nothing more, nothing less.
Needless to say, she was finding it difficult to cope without her life's two greatest influences. No matter what she did, no matter how many allies and companions she surrounded herself with, nothing she did ever replaced the loneliness and fear building inside her. She wanted her family back. That's all she had ever wanted; from the time she had been kidnapped at the age of sixteen to her time as a Jedi Knight. Six long years, and she still wanted the same thing.
The feline, on occasion, wondered if separation from her family was some kind of sick test the Gods were inflicting upon her. A trial, to determine her strength and her worthiness in their eyes. She always dispelled such thoughts, but the frequency at which they returned to haunt her was unnerving at best.
It was pleasant outside the Mohatu house; the skies were bright and blue, and white-crested waves rolled onto the beach. The house itself was built overlooking the shore of one of Balmorra's oceans. It was wholly conventional in construction, being made of sturdy timber with an adobe facade for style. The interior was fairly modern, with an abundance of polished steel, glass, and leather furnishings, though a few pieces of furniture -such as the dining room table and chairs- were far older in style, being of hand-carved wooden construction.
The two-story structure was surrounded with well-kept lawns, which were in turn bordered by a two-foot stone wall, which was capped with eight-foot tall steel fencing. The wall was never closer than one hundred yards at any point, and curved in a gentle arc around the property. A landing pad and hangar sat in the woods behind the house, and was connected to the rest of the property by a dirt trail that was typically traversed using a speeder or wheeled vehicle.
A guardhouse had been built by the hangar during her father's time as the Senator of Balmorra, and it had been reinforced and expanded when he became Chancellor. It was empty now; Samanya had told the guards to 'take a vacation' for a few days and leave her be. She needed time away from the guards; nothing too drastic, merely a few days. It'd give her the time she needed to pull herself back together, and to bolster her spirits.
She had sent for Ellie; a lifelong and a fellow pilot, she counted the Nelvaanian as one of her closest friends, and one of her most trusted - she had told Ellie everything about her slavery when she had told her father nothing. Sam dearly hoped that Ellie would answer her call; she wanted company for the next few days. She wasn't going to vent, she just wanted a shoulder to lean on for a bit.
The female sighed as she sprawled on the living room couch, wearing naught but a white tank-top and black sweats. She stared out into the ocean, blue eyes dark and tired. Her tail hung lazily over the edge of the couch, swishing back and forth as she thought. She didn't move, or speak, or even twiddle her thumbs; she just laid there, thinking. Dreaming. She was wondering what it would be like if she had never been kidnapped. Would she have gone to the Jedi Order? Would Kamua have signed up with the Jedi in the first place? Would her mother have survived her fight with cancer? Would her father have become the Chancellor? Would she have been more successful in finding romance? What would have happened?
She didn't know, and it frustrated her that she couldn't turn back the clock and find out.
Young Miss Mohatu was jolted from her thoughts when she felt a sudden lapse in the Force. She felt disconnected, unable to sense or manipulate anything through the Force. She sat up and stared down at her hands as she tried to puzzle out what was going on. By the time she recognized that disconnection as the effect of a Ysalamir, it was too late; the front door to the house shattered inwards, splinters of wood flying every which way in a hail of sawdust and kindling.
The feline bolted to her feet. Someone shouted behind her; the language was unfamiliar and incomprehensible to her. Before she could even turn to face the house's entry, she felt something small and sharp wedge into her upper back.
She instantly felt weak. Her muscles began to constrict painfully, her entire body tensing as red-hot pain flowed through her veins. She'd been drugged!
The Cathar slumped to her hands and knees. She felt indescribably weak, as if her body was made of lead. Even her cybernetic limb was affected, indicating that the drug was some kind of neurotoxin. Panicking and desperate for any means with which to fight back, she pushed herself to 'sit' on her knees and reached for the comms on the coffee table.
"Not so fast! Grab her!" a man snarled behind her. She cried out as she felt a pair of massive and powerful hands seize her by biceps from behind. She was dragged to her feet and hauled out into the open space between the living room and the front door, and roughly thrown to the ground. The wind was knocked from her lungs when she struck the flooring. She gasped and wheezed as she pushed herself up again, but one of her assailants put his boot right between her shoulders and forced her back into the floor. "Stay down, whore."
She knew that voice. It was the same heavy, almost gravelly tone of Kalil - a Kiffar torturer who delighted in reading the memories from his victims' clothing and his own implements of agony. He'd been a lackey for her fifth owner; a particularly cruel and unusual crime lord from the outer rim. He was anonymous in every way, but had delighted in watching and recording the torture and abuse of his slaves. From what she had gathered, he sold the recordings as a side job; his day job was overseeing a large and very profitable 'protection ring' on Taris's lower levels.
Kalil himself had tortured her more times than she could remember. To say that she was terrified was an understatement - there were no words that could adequately describe the fear coursing through her veins. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath was shallow and rapid, and every fiber in her body begged her to shrug him off and run, but she couldn't. She could only lay there, pinned and helpless.
"Boss has been lookin' for you, you know," Kalil growled. The scarred man knelt down and brushed a lock of knotted and greasy black hair out of his face and grinned wickedly, revealing a grotesque collection of gold teeth standing in for his natural teeth. "He's... Missed you. I think he regrets sellin' you off to that Zeltron girl. And he wants you back! Imagine that, he wants you of all people, you lucky little whore."
He seized a fistful of her hair and roughly turned her head, forcing her to look at him. "But he wants you to come... How'd he put it... 'More or less willingly.' What that means is this:" Kalil paused and produced a tiny syringe, loaded with a sickly green fluid that seemed to glow. He jabbed it into her neck, and emptied the contents into her. "Either you show up at the usual spot in three weeks time, or this shit kills you. Not slow, either; it's gonna turn your insides to soup, it's gonna melt off your skin and liquiefy your bones, and it's going to do it very, very slowly so that you can savor every second of pain. Taris. Afterlife Club. Be there, hun, or else you're gonna be six feet under, you dig?"
She tried to speak, but couldn't. The drugs had done a number on her; she felt even weaker than before now.
"What's that? Cat got your tongue?" He laughed cruelly, and snapped his fingers. One of his cronies -she hadn't spotted them before, but now she noticed at least two or three other pairs of feet stamping around- handed him a long steel rod with a leather handle at one end and a ceramic 'box' covering the other end. He removed the ceramic, revealing a trident-shaped branding iron. With a flick of a switch, the end was glowing a brilliant red. The female shivered in fear as he brushed her hair aside. "Looks like your last brand healed nicely... Time for take two, eh?"
The sickening sizzle of flesh, the stench of burnt skin and singed fur, and the cries of pain from Samanya tickled Kalil's sense of humor. He roared with laughter and forced the brand in deeper, causing her to involuntarily squirm beneath him. "Oh, Samanya, Samanya, Samanya, you lucky whore! Just think, girl; this is only the beginning. Think of all the fun we'll have together once you come home to us!"
He shut off the brand and rose to his feet. A swift kick to her ribs knocked the wind out of her again and saw the young woman curled up into a helpless ball. "C'mon lads. Let's go."
Kalil and his crew walked out without a care in the world, leaving Samanya a frightened, broken wreck on the floor. Her past had come back to bite her in the ass, and it had bit hard. She waited five minutes after they left, then ten, then an hour; the drugs weren't wearing off. She was just feeling weaker and weaker. She struggled as long and as hard as she could, but ultimately gave up. Battered and bruised, she passed out in the middle of the floor, door wide open and a stormfront descending on the property - cliche, but, given the dreariness of her situation, the storm was only too fitting.
She would take up soon enough, though. She had summoned Ellie to meet with her that night, after all, and her friend was nothing if not [somewhat] punctual.
Their hospitalization had hit Samanya hard. She was very close to her father and her brother. They had shaped her, defined her, made her the best that she could be. Junior, or 'Kamua' as Sam loved to call him, had taught her to be kind and gentle. He had taught her the arts of empathy and compassion, and he had trained her in the ways of the Force. Her father had taught her to fly and fight, to stand tall and never abandon what she believed in. Her father had taught her to be brave and loyal, to love and respect her friends and family, and to always be true to herself above all else.
Jamall and Kamua were two very different men. One was gentle, the other was strong. One was passionate, the other was patient. Their differences were innumerable, yet were combined together and personified in Samanya's indomitable spirit. She was their mirror image; nothing more, nothing less.
Needless to say, she was finding it difficult to cope without her life's two greatest influences. No matter what she did, no matter how many allies and companions she surrounded herself with, nothing she did ever replaced the loneliness and fear building inside her. She wanted her family back. That's all she had ever wanted; from the time she had been kidnapped at the age of sixteen to her time as a Jedi Knight. Six long years, and she still wanted the same thing.
The feline, on occasion, wondered if separation from her family was some kind of sick test the Gods were inflicting upon her. A trial, to determine her strength and her worthiness in their eyes. She always dispelled such thoughts, but the frequency at which they returned to haunt her was unnerving at best.
It was pleasant outside the Mohatu house; the skies were bright and blue, and white-crested waves rolled onto the beach. The house itself was built overlooking the shore of one of Balmorra's oceans. It was wholly conventional in construction, being made of sturdy timber with an adobe facade for style. The interior was fairly modern, with an abundance of polished steel, glass, and leather furnishings, though a few pieces of furniture -such as the dining room table and chairs- were far older in style, being of hand-carved wooden construction.
The two-story structure was surrounded with well-kept lawns, which were in turn bordered by a two-foot stone wall, which was capped with eight-foot tall steel fencing. The wall was never closer than one hundred yards at any point, and curved in a gentle arc around the property. A landing pad and hangar sat in the woods behind the house, and was connected to the rest of the property by a dirt trail that was typically traversed using a speeder or wheeled vehicle.
A guardhouse had been built by the hangar during her father's time as the Senator of Balmorra, and it had been reinforced and expanded when he became Chancellor. It was empty now; Samanya had told the guards to 'take a vacation' for a few days and leave her be. She needed time away from the guards; nothing too drastic, merely a few days. It'd give her the time she needed to pull herself back together, and to bolster her spirits.
She had sent for Ellie; a lifelong and a fellow pilot, she counted the Nelvaanian as one of her closest friends, and one of her most trusted - she had told Ellie everything about her slavery when she had told her father nothing. Sam dearly hoped that Ellie would answer her call; she wanted company for the next few days. She wasn't going to vent, she just wanted a shoulder to lean on for a bit.
The female sighed as she sprawled on the living room couch, wearing naught but a white tank-top and black sweats. She stared out into the ocean, blue eyes dark and tired. Her tail hung lazily over the edge of the couch, swishing back and forth as she thought. She didn't move, or speak, or even twiddle her thumbs; she just laid there, thinking. Dreaming. She was wondering what it would be like if she had never been kidnapped. Would she have gone to the Jedi Order? Would Kamua have signed up with the Jedi in the first place? Would her mother have survived her fight with cancer? Would her father have become the Chancellor? Would she have been more successful in finding romance? What would have happened?
She didn't know, and it frustrated her that she couldn't turn back the clock and find out.
Young Miss Mohatu was jolted from her thoughts when she felt a sudden lapse in the Force. She felt disconnected, unable to sense or manipulate anything through the Force. She sat up and stared down at her hands as she tried to puzzle out what was going on. By the time she recognized that disconnection as the effect of a Ysalamir, it was too late; the front door to the house shattered inwards, splinters of wood flying every which way in a hail of sawdust and kindling.
The feline bolted to her feet. Someone shouted behind her; the language was unfamiliar and incomprehensible to her. Before she could even turn to face the house's entry, she felt something small and sharp wedge into her upper back.
She instantly felt weak. Her muscles began to constrict painfully, her entire body tensing as red-hot pain flowed through her veins. She'd been drugged!
The Cathar slumped to her hands and knees. She felt indescribably weak, as if her body was made of lead. Even her cybernetic limb was affected, indicating that the drug was some kind of neurotoxin. Panicking and desperate for any means with which to fight back, she pushed herself to 'sit' on her knees and reached for the comms on the coffee table.
"Not so fast! Grab her!" a man snarled behind her. She cried out as she felt a pair of massive and powerful hands seize her by biceps from behind. She was dragged to her feet and hauled out into the open space between the living room and the front door, and roughly thrown to the ground. The wind was knocked from her lungs when she struck the flooring. She gasped and wheezed as she pushed herself up again, but one of her assailants put his boot right between her shoulders and forced her back into the floor. "Stay down, whore."
She knew that voice. It was the same heavy, almost gravelly tone of Kalil - a Kiffar torturer who delighted in reading the memories from his victims' clothing and his own implements of agony. He'd been a lackey for her fifth owner; a particularly cruel and unusual crime lord from the outer rim. He was anonymous in every way, but had delighted in watching and recording the torture and abuse of his slaves. From what she had gathered, he sold the recordings as a side job; his day job was overseeing a large and very profitable 'protection ring' on Taris's lower levels.
Kalil himself had tortured her more times than she could remember. To say that she was terrified was an understatement - there were no words that could adequately describe the fear coursing through her veins. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath was shallow and rapid, and every fiber in her body begged her to shrug him off and run, but she couldn't. She could only lay there, pinned and helpless.
"Boss has been lookin' for you, you know," Kalil growled. The scarred man knelt down and brushed a lock of knotted and greasy black hair out of his face and grinned wickedly, revealing a grotesque collection of gold teeth standing in for his natural teeth. "He's... Missed you. I think he regrets sellin' you off to that Zeltron girl. And he wants you back! Imagine that, he wants you of all people, you lucky little whore."
He seized a fistful of her hair and roughly turned her head, forcing her to look at him. "But he wants you to come... How'd he put it... 'More or less willingly.' What that means is this:" Kalil paused and produced a tiny syringe, loaded with a sickly green fluid that seemed to glow. He jabbed it into her neck, and emptied the contents into her. "Either you show up at the usual spot in three weeks time, or this shit kills you. Not slow, either; it's gonna turn your insides to soup, it's gonna melt off your skin and liquiefy your bones, and it's going to do it very, very slowly so that you can savor every second of pain. Taris. Afterlife Club. Be there, hun, or else you're gonna be six feet under, you dig?"
She tried to speak, but couldn't. The drugs had done a number on her; she felt even weaker than before now.
"What's that? Cat got your tongue?" He laughed cruelly, and snapped his fingers. One of his cronies -she hadn't spotted them before, but now she noticed at least two or three other pairs of feet stamping around- handed him a long steel rod with a leather handle at one end and a ceramic 'box' covering the other end. He removed the ceramic, revealing a trident-shaped branding iron. With a flick of a switch, the end was glowing a brilliant red. The female shivered in fear as he brushed her hair aside. "Looks like your last brand healed nicely... Time for take two, eh?"
The sickening sizzle of flesh, the stench of burnt skin and singed fur, and the cries of pain from Samanya tickled Kalil's sense of humor. He roared with laughter and forced the brand in deeper, causing her to involuntarily squirm beneath him. "Oh, Samanya, Samanya, Samanya, you lucky whore! Just think, girl; this is only the beginning. Think of all the fun we'll have together once you come home to us!"
He shut off the brand and rose to his feet. A swift kick to her ribs knocked the wind out of her again and saw the young woman curled up into a helpless ball. "C'mon lads. Let's go."
Kalil and his crew walked out without a care in the world, leaving Samanya a frightened, broken wreck on the floor. Her past had come back to bite her in the ass, and it had bit hard. She waited five minutes after they left, then ten, then an hour; the drugs weren't wearing off. She was just feeling weaker and weaker. She struggled as long and as hard as she could, but ultimately gave up. Battered and bruised, she passed out in the middle of the floor, door wide open and a stormfront descending on the property - cliche, but, given the dreariness of her situation, the storm was only too fitting.
She would take up soon enough, though. She had summoned Ellie to meet with her that night, after all, and her friend was nothing if not [somewhat] punctual.
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