NEW FIC: for the greater good
title for the greater good
author patientalien
word count 2068
rating M
summary Anakin is forced to submit to the Zygerrian queen, in more ways than one.
notes Written for the "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity" prompt on my hc_bingo card. AU of the "Slaves of the Republic" story arc (comic and show)
warnings non-graphic non-con, torture/violence, character death
------
From the beginning, Anakin could tell Ahsoka had been disgusted with him. He flirted unabashedly with the Queen, whispering filthy suggestions of what they could do together. She'd watched him allow the Queen to treat him like her property, touching him without asking, letting his own fingertips linger a bit too long on her skin. Lars Quell was, as Ahsoka had so dramatically proclaimed, a brigand. Anakin Skywalker, on the other hand, was forcing himself to swallow bile as he worked for the adoration of a woman whose very existence made him feel ill.
He tried not to think about Padme, about whether she would consider this infidelity. He would never treat her in such a way, with lurid proclamations and bold touches; he knew well how she felt about that kind of behavior. But he hoped, in the back of his mind as he tried not to think about her, she would understand. She'd done the same with Rush Clovis, after all. Surely she would understand the line between duty and the personal, surely she would understand how abhorant this was to him. Then again, she might never find out, which is what he found himself truly hoping for.
He stood at Miraj's side, watching the slave auction play out far below them in the arena. He was reminded, briefly, unpleasantly, of Geonosis, which made him think of his mother, which made him even angrier at the role he was playing. What would she think of him, if she saw what he was doing? He hoped she, like Padme, would understand.
One of the Zygerrian slavers entered the arena, and Anakin found his attention pulled downwards. For a moment, he wasn't sure he'd heard the announcement correctly, but then Obi-Wan was pushed into the center of the arena, tunic and trousers ripped, a slave collar around his neck, hands bound in front of him. Anakin forced himself not to react, but fire was racing through his blood, his vision going splotchy. Beside him, Ahsoka snarled and he gave her a sharp look - now was not the time to blow their cover. Miraj smiled and placed a hand on Anakin's shoulder. He felt, distantly, the handle of an electro-whip being gently pressed into his hand. "Show them," she whispered. "Show them the Jedi are nothing compared to us. Prove your loyalty to our cause."
He wasn't loyal to their cause. He loathed it with every fiber of his being. But, again, he was not himself, in this moment. He was Lars Quell, slaver, brigand, womanizer. Obi-Wan would never forgive him if he messed this up, if he gave in to instincts that screamed at him that he should kill the Queen now, grab his lightsaber from Artoo, run her through, toss her off the balcony, free all the slaves.
I didn't come here to free slaves. Qui-Gon had said that, so many years ago. And, technically, that was not Anakin's mission either, not in so many words. It gnawed at him, the inability to act, to reveal himself as not only a Jedi, but as Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, the slave boy plucked from obscurity and sent into a greater world with a greater purpose. His hand clenched around the whip and he closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Of course, my lady," he said, the words catching in his throat. He swung off the balcony, landing with graceful ease in the dust on the arena floor.
His eyes met Obi-Wan's, and he whispered along their bond, I can't do this. Obi-Wan's expression hardened. "You must," he whispered once Anakin was close. "You are already forgiven for what is about to happen. Do not let it trouble you." Obi-Wan took a deep breath, as if struggling with something himself. "Anakin, this once, give in to your anger. Use it against me."
Anakin shook his head. "Master, I can't." He tightened his grip on the whip's handle, frowning, prowling around Obi-Wan as though this were just part of the act. He knew what would happen if he gave into his anger; Obi-Wan, and everyone else in the arena, would suffer. If he let loose, he wouldn't be able to control his powers, or himself. And he didn't know if he'd ever be able to regain that control.
"You must," Obi-Wan replied, and his tone brooked no argument. "This is your duty, Anakin."
Something inside of him snapped in that moment. "I am so tired," he snarled, "of my duty!" His boot struck Obi-Wan's ribs, knocking the older man onto his side. The crowd cheered. Obi-Wan rose to his hands and knees and Anakin cracked the whip against the dusty ground, anger and frustration and despair flooding through him in an overpowering wave. He could do this. He had to do this. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and Rex and all of these slaves - they were all relying on him to go against everything he'd ever believed in, and it made him angry. He saw Obi-Wan brace himself and snapped the whip out again, this time letting it crack across Obi-Wan's back, electricity dancing along his body. With the second blow, Obi-Wan cried out.
Anakin shut himself off.
-----
"For a while, I wasn't sure you had what it took," Miraj informed him, later, pouring the wine. Anakin took the proffered glass and tried not to gulp it down, tried to make it look like he wasn't shaking from head to toe with remorse, with guilt and the lingering anger, still hot in his veins. "But you did well." She ran her fingers down his arm, and he tried not to flinch away. Across the room, Ahsoka watched, concern in her eyes. "I wish to celebrate our new partnership," Miraj announced.
"And how do you propose to do that, my lady?" Anakin asked. He didn't feel like playing this game anymore, had no desire to keep up the charade. He'd come this far, though, and if he had any chance of freeing Obi-Wan, he had to keep playing.
She gave him a lascivious smile, and Anakin felt his stomach clench. "Send your slave to rest," she suggested, voice lilting with desire. "Unless you want her to join in..."
"NO," Anakin said quickly, sharper than perhaps he should have. "No. She, uh, she has not been trained as a pleasure slave." He swallowed heavily. "I would hate to have Your Highness experience something of lesser quality than you deserve." He turned to Ahsoka. "Go to the slave's quarters, skug," he snarled at her. "I will call for you when you're needed." He hoped she understood his unspoken Look for Obi-Wan; he was sure she would anyway.
She looked enormously unhappy, but did as he'd told her, bowing slightly (though reluctantly) before making her way out of the room, flanked by Miraj's guards. He hoped she didn't do anything stupid. "Now," Miraj said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed, "Show me, Lars Quell, how you would serve your Queen."
With slightly fumbling fingers, Anakin stripped out of his stolen disguise, realizing with trepidation that as soon as he revealed his mechanical arm, the chances she would recognize him would increase tenfold. But perhaps that would be for the best. Perhaps, if she revealed him herself, he would be free to act how he deemed appropriate, which included killing her.
Still, when he peeled off the glove, she didn't seem to put the pieces together, merely asking him mildly what manner of accident had led to such an accessory. "Ah, hardly worth considering, Majesty," Anakin replied.
Miraj reclined on the bed, arching her body in invitation. He carefully divest her of her gown, undoing lacings that reminded him, painfully, of those on some of Padme's more ornate outfits. "You have very skilled hands," the Queen commended as he slid them down her body. She was beautiful, Anakin had to admit, but it was a terrible, cold beauty, nothing like the warmth and joy that came with his wife.
"They are for you, Your Highness," Anakin said, swallowing his disgust, breathing erratic.
The Queen offered him a haughty look. "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "they are."
-----
The Queen had fallen asleep. Anakin stared at her, her pale features illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He flexed his hand, resisting the temptation to strangle her where she lay. She seemed to sense his attention on her because she shifted, rolled over, opened her eyes. "Don't you sleep?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
With difficulty, Anakin tamped down his anger. "And miss out on seeing your beauty?" He felt sick, filthy as if he'd been crawling through the swamps of Drongar. Then, he decided to end it. "A favor, though, Majesty."
She propped herself up on her elbows and considered him. "Name it, Lars Quell," she replied, still glowing from their exertions.
Anakin cleared his throat. "The Jedi," he said. "Kenobi."
Miraj awarded him with a sly smile. "You wish to have him as your own," she surmised. "Break him yourself?"
Anakin forced himself to nod. "Yes, Highness. I..." He paused, gathering his words. "I want to prove myself further to you," he said, finally. "And I thought breaking the Jedi..."
She waved her hand. "Of course," she replied blithely, reaching over to her bedside table for her communicator. "Bring up the Jedi," she commanded. For the brief moment she was distracting, Anakin activated his own commlink, signaling Ahsoka and Artoo to return to the Queen's chambers. She turned back to Anakin. "Now," she said. "How shall we pass the time?"
-----
Anakin was fairly sure he'd never been more relieved to see his former Master. Obi-Wan looked terrible, beaten and bloody. Anger surged through Anakin again, and he clenched his fists in an attempt to calm himself. There was little he could do without Artoo, but he sent a brief flash of his plan to Obi-Wan, who merely looked at him in resignation.
Miraj circled around Obi-Wan, appraising him coolly, regally. She laid the electro-whip in Anakin's outstretched palm. "Break the Jedi," she whispered, licking the shell of his ear. Anakin winced, hefted the whip in his hand as Artoo and Ahsoka appeared in the doorway.
"Let's go, buddy," Anakin murmured to Artoo, and struck, the whip wrapping itself around the Queen's neck. His lightsaber flew through the air, propelled by the astromech, and he activated it, pulling Miraj closer with the whip. Behind him, he heard three more 'sabers ignite. "Now, Highness," he growled, angling his blade towards her heart, "We're going to talk about the people of Kiros."
"Do you really think this show of brute force is going to sway me?" she snarled, voice shaking as electricity coursed through her body.
"You WILL release the slaves," Anakin snarled back, pushing with the Force, harder than he needed to. The Queen crumpled; he held her up with his hand around her throat.
"Anakin..."
He ignored Obi-Wan, favoring Miraj with all of his anger. "Release the slaves, and I'll let you live," he informed her, though at the moment he was fairly certain that was a lie.
The door exploded and suddenly half of the 501st was flanking him. He grinned, feral, the rush of victory spreading through him, intoxicating. "General Skywalker," one of them said. "Resolute and Indomitable are in orbit and ready to release the bombers on your command."
Anakin turned back to Miraj. "Your move, Highness," he said, summoning her comm with the Force and handing it to her.
"You're still a slave," Miraj spit. "With me, you could have had greatness." Still, she keyed in a command. "Perhaps you still can." She reached out a hand. "We could rebuild our empire."
"The slavers have stood down," one of the clones announced. "We'll begin transporting the slaves up to the Resolute." Anakin nodded, focused still on Miraj.
"I will never serve your empire," Anakin hissed, and drew her forward, skewering her on his lightsaber. He took a step back, shocked at himself, blade retracting with a snap.
"Oh, Anakin," Obi-Wan murmured over Ahsoka's surprised whimper.
Anakin shook his head and turned back to them. "Let's go home," he said, voice rough, shaking. He tried not to see Obi-Wan's disappointment, Ahsoka's horror, and tried not to think about how wonderful that brief, terrible moment had been.
It was, after all, for the greater good.
author patientalien
word count 2068
rating M
summary Anakin is forced to submit to the Zygerrian queen, in more ways than one.
notes Written for the "forced to participate in illegal/hurtful activity" prompt on my hc_bingo card. AU of the "Slaves of the Republic" story arc (comic and show)
warnings non-graphic non-con, torture/violence, character death
------
From the beginning, Anakin could tell Ahsoka had been disgusted with him. He flirted unabashedly with the Queen, whispering filthy suggestions of what they could do together. She'd watched him allow the Queen to treat him like her property, touching him without asking, letting his own fingertips linger a bit too long on her skin. Lars Quell was, as Ahsoka had so dramatically proclaimed, a brigand. Anakin Skywalker, on the other hand, was forcing himself to swallow bile as he worked for the adoration of a woman whose very existence made him feel ill.
He tried not to think about Padme, about whether she would consider this infidelity. He would never treat her in such a way, with lurid proclamations and bold touches; he knew well how she felt about that kind of behavior. But he hoped, in the back of his mind as he tried not to think about her, she would understand. She'd done the same with Rush Clovis, after all. Surely she would understand the line between duty and the personal, surely she would understand how abhorant this was to him. Then again, she might never find out, which is what he found himself truly hoping for.
He stood at Miraj's side, watching the slave auction play out far below them in the arena. He was reminded, briefly, unpleasantly, of Geonosis, which made him think of his mother, which made him even angrier at the role he was playing. What would she think of him, if she saw what he was doing? He hoped she, like Padme, would understand.
One of the Zygerrian slavers entered the arena, and Anakin found his attention pulled downwards. For a moment, he wasn't sure he'd heard the announcement correctly, but then Obi-Wan was pushed into the center of the arena, tunic and trousers ripped, a slave collar around his neck, hands bound in front of him. Anakin forced himself not to react, but fire was racing through his blood, his vision going splotchy. Beside him, Ahsoka snarled and he gave her a sharp look - now was not the time to blow their cover. Miraj smiled and placed a hand on Anakin's shoulder. He felt, distantly, the handle of an electro-whip being gently pressed into his hand. "Show them," she whispered. "Show them the Jedi are nothing compared to us. Prove your loyalty to our cause."
He wasn't loyal to their cause. He loathed it with every fiber of his being. But, again, he was not himself, in this moment. He was Lars Quell, slaver, brigand, womanizer. Obi-Wan would never forgive him if he messed this up, if he gave in to instincts that screamed at him that he should kill the Queen now, grab his lightsaber from Artoo, run her through, toss her off the balcony, free all the slaves.
I didn't come here to free slaves. Qui-Gon had said that, so many years ago. And, technically, that was not Anakin's mission either, not in so many words. It gnawed at him, the inability to act, to reveal himself as not only a Jedi, but as Anakin Skywalker, the Chosen One, the slave boy plucked from obscurity and sent into a greater world with a greater purpose. His hand clenched around the whip and he closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Of course, my lady," he said, the words catching in his throat. He swung off the balcony, landing with graceful ease in the dust on the arena floor.
His eyes met Obi-Wan's, and he whispered along their bond, I can't do this. Obi-Wan's expression hardened. "You must," he whispered once Anakin was close. "You are already forgiven for what is about to happen. Do not let it trouble you." Obi-Wan took a deep breath, as if struggling with something himself. "Anakin, this once, give in to your anger. Use it against me."
Anakin shook his head. "Master, I can't." He tightened his grip on the whip's handle, frowning, prowling around Obi-Wan as though this were just part of the act. He knew what would happen if he gave into his anger; Obi-Wan, and everyone else in the arena, would suffer. If he let loose, he wouldn't be able to control his powers, or himself. And he didn't know if he'd ever be able to regain that control.
"You must," Obi-Wan replied, and his tone brooked no argument. "This is your duty, Anakin."
Something inside of him snapped in that moment. "I am so tired," he snarled, "of my duty!" His boot struck Obi-Wan's ribs, knocking the older man onto his side. The crowd cheered. Obi-Wan rose to his hands and knees and Anakin cracked the whip against the dusty ground, anger and frustration and despair flooding through him in an overpowering wave. He could do this. He had to do this. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and Rex and all of these slaves - they were all relying on him to go against everything he'd ever believed in, and it made him angry. He saw Obi-Wan brace himself and snapped the whip out again, this time letting it crack across Obi-Wan's back, electricity dancing along his body. With the second blow, Obi-Wan cried out.
Anakin shut himself off.
-----
"For a while, I wasn't sure you had what it took," Miraj informed him, later, pouring the wine. Anakin took the proffered glass and tried not to gulp it down, tried to make it look like he wasn't shaking from head to toe with remorse, with guilt and the lingering anger, still hot in his veins. "But you did well." She ran her fingers down his arm, and he tried not to flinch away. Across the room, Ahsoka watched, concern in her eyes. "I wish to celebrate our new partnership," Miraj announced.
"And how do you propose to do that, my lady?" Anakin asked. He didn't feel like playing this game anymore, had no desire to keep up the charade. He'd come this far, though, and if he had any chance of freeing Obi-Wan, he had to keep playing.
She gave him a lascivious smile, and Anakin felt his stomach clench. "Send your slave to rest," she suggested, voice lilting with desire. "Unless you want her to join in..."
"NO," Anakin said quickly, sharper than perhaps he should have. "No. She, uh, she has not been trained as a pleasure slave." He swallowed heavily. "I would hate to have Your Highness experience something of lesser quality than you deserve." He turned to Ahsoka. "Go to the slave's quarters, skug," he snarled at her. "I will call for you when you're needed." He hoped she understood his unspoken Look for Obi-Wan; he was sure she would anyway.
She looked enormously unhappy, but did as he'd told her, bowing slightly (though reluctantly) before making her way out of the room, flanked by Miraj's guards. He hoped she didn't do anything stupid. "Now," Miraj said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed, "Show me, Lars Quell, how you would serve your Queen."
With slightly fumbling fingers, Anakin stripped out of his stolen disguise, realizing with trepidation that as soon as he revealed his mechanical arm, the chances she would recognize him would increase tenfold. But perhaps that would be for the best. Perhaps, if she revealed him herself, he would be free to act how he deemed appropriate, which included killing her.
Still, when he peeled off the glove, she didn't seem to put the pieces together, merely asking him mildly what manner of accident had led to such an accessory. "Ah, hardly worth considering, Majesty," Anakin replied.
Miraj reclined on the bed, arching her body in invitation. He carefully divest her of her gown, undoing lacings that reminded him, painfully, of those on some of Padme's more ornate outfits. "You have very skilled hands," the Queen commended as he slid them down her body. She was beautiful, Anakin had to admit, but it was a terrible, cold beauty, nothing like the warmth and joy that came with his wife.
"They are for you, Your Highness," Anakin said, swallowing his disgust, breathing erratic.
The Queen offered him a haughty look. "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "they are."
-----
The Queen had fallen asleep. Anakin stared at her, her pale features illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He flexed his hand, resisting the temptation to strangle her where she lay. She seemed to sense his attention on her because she shifted, rolled over, opened her eyes. "Don't you sleep?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.
With difficulty, Anakin tamped down his anger. "And miss out on seeing your beauty?" He felt sick, filthy as if he'd been crawling through the swamps of Drongar. Then, he decided to end it. "A favor, though, Majesty."
She propped herself up on her elbows and considered him. "Name it, Lars Quell," she replied, still glowing from their exertions.
Anakin cleared his throat. "The Jedi," he said. "Kenobi."
Miraj awarded him with a sly smile. "You wish to have him as your own," she surmised. "Break him yourself?"
Anakin forced himself to nod. "Yes, Highness. I..." He paused, gathering his words. "I want to prove myself further to you," he said, finally. "And I thought breaking the Jedi..."
She waved her hand. "Of course," she replied blithely, reaching over to her bedside table for her communicator. "Bring up the Jedi," she commanded. For the brief moment she was distracting, Anakin activated his own commlink, signaling Ahsoka and Artoo to return to the Queen's chambers. She turned back to Anakin. "Now," she said. "How shall we pass the time?"
-----
Anakin was fairly sure he'd never been more relieved to see his former Master. Obi-Wan looked terrible, beaten and bloody. Anger surged through Anakin again, and he clenched his fists in an attempt to calm himself. There was little he could do without Artoo, but he sent a brief flash of his plan to Obi-Wan, who merely looked at him in resignation.
Miraj circled around Obi-Wan, appraising him coolly, regally. She laid the electro-whip in Anakin's outstretched palm. "Break the Jedi," she whispered, licking the shell of his ear. Anakin winced, hefted the whip in his hand as Artoo and Ahsoka appeared in the doorway.
"Let's go, buddy," Anakin murmured to Artoo, and struck, the whip wrapping itself around the Queen's neck. His lightsaber flew through the air, propelled by the astromech, and he activated it, pulling Miraj closer with the whip. Behind him, he heard three more 'sabers ignite. "Now, Highness," he growled, angling his blade towards her heart, "We're going to talk about the people of Kiros."
"Do you really think this show of brute force is going to sway me?" she snarled, voice shaking as electricity coursed through her body.
"You WILL release the slaves," Anakin snarled back, pushing with the Force, harder than he needed to. The Queen crumpled; he held her up with his hand around her throat.
"Anakin..."
He ignored Obi-Wan, favoring Miraj with all of his anger. "Release the slaves, and I'll let you live," he informed her, though at the moment he was fairly certain that was a lie.
The door exploded and suddenly half of the 501st was flanking him. He grinned, feral, the rush of victory spreading through him, intoxicating. "General Skywalker," one of them said. "Resolute and Indomitable are in orbit and ready to release the bombers on your command."
Anakin turned back to Miraj. "Your move, Highness," he said, summoning her comm with the Force and handing it to her.
"You're still a slave," Miraj spit. "With me, you could have had greatness." Still, she keyed in a command. "Perhaps you still can." She reached out a hand. "We could rebuild our empire."
"The slavers have stood down," one of the clones announced. "We'll begin transporting the slaves up to the Resolute." Anakin nodded, focused still on Miraj.
"I will never serve your empire," Anakin hissed, and drew her forward, skewering her on his lightsaber. He took a step back, shocked at himself, blade retracting with a snap.
"Oh, Anakin," Obi-Wan murmured over Ahsoka's surprised whimper.
Anakin shook his head and turned back to them. "Let's go home," he said, voice rough, shaking. He tried not to see Obi-Wan's disappointment, Ahsoka's horror, and tried not to think about how wonderful that brief, terrible moment had been.
It was, after all, for the greater good.