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viktor-noctis · 3 years

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Harvest Moon

Anakin Skywalker wanted to kill everyone in the room. And then himself.

Even if they didn’t know who he was, because the chance they might find out was too terrifying to consider.

But they hadn’t. He knew they hadn’t. Because if they had, they would all have died of laughter before he could slice them into little pieces with his lightsaber. Which he didn’t have.

This night just keeps getting better and better.

He had completed well over two-hundred missions since he joined the Jedi Order, from escorting diplomats, brokering peace between nations, and fighting on battlefields the galaxy over. He had traversed forests full of dangerous, man-eating flora, ice cloaked mountains with beasts that could rip one apart in seconds, and even desserts. Full of sand. Which he believed was far eviler than the worms waiting beneath the surface of the dunes, ready to swallow one whole, or any of the previous threats combined. He would take any of them, all of them, even a dustbowl, over his current assignment.

On paper, it looked standard: use secured invitation to get inside of a party of ambassadors, senators, and potential members of the Separatists. Easy. Sneak past heavily armored centurion guards wielding plasma canons and ion missiles that may or may not have heat seeker technology embedded in them. Interesting, without a weapon, but not impossible. Find information regarding the movements of enemy shipments, containing stolen kyber crystals, and potential hostages of their side. Somewhat difficult… If one didn’t possess an encrypted pass code, capable of rapid copying the necessary data in record time. All-in-all, the usual kind of Jedi mission that included a bit of espionage on the side.

Except the teeny, tiny, minute detail of the invitation being formatted for a Lady Skylar Erie.

A woman from a small, noble house on Naboo. She was twenty-two years old, six feet tall exactly, and didn’t speak due to a childhood incident. Her hair was a light brown with touches of golden blond, possessing eyes the color of dark turquoise gems, and skin bronzed by the sun. Lady Skyler had full, dark lips, now shaded to a deep crimson, and high cheekbones. Her shoulders were broad, her legs long, and –

“Luckily,” the stylist had smiled at him in the mirror, “handsome young men make beautiful women.” Obi-Wan didn’t look like he agreed with that statement. His arms were crossed, eyes wide beneath his furrowed brow, and lips pursed within his beard… which he was stroking. Which meant he was looking for something comforting to say. Anakin was almost curious what sort of backwards, reorganized Yoda-phrase he would use, no doubt intended to distract him from that fact that he made a passable woman in a pinch. His former master opened and closed his mouth several times, forming nothing, and eventually just let a burst of air out behind his sealed lips. Which was probably the wisest thing he could have done.

The dress was another monstrous affair. The fact that Padma had been the one to gift the pattern to the tailor made him want to jump off the nearest bridge. Because that meant it was from Naboo, which was notorious for having so many hard to navigate layers, it was like trying to solve a puzzle maze. He’d overheat and die. Either that, or it would be a flowing slip of silk that would immediately give away the fact he was a man, and he could already see the billboard tagline all over the tabloid side of the holonet.

A form fitted, off the shoulder, obsidian gown arrived. There was a deep cerulean, satin sash that wrapped around the top, no doubt to hide his lack of cleavage, and draped down to curl over the low arches of his hips, falling down his buttocks like a tail. The entire thing was accented with ivory stones across the top, coiling in abstract patterns down his ribs, growing smaller till they faded at his thighs. Made from the finest silks, the whole thing had been custom fitted for him a week before.

“It’s a shame you want to destroy it.” Obi-Wan’s voice held six feet worth of lamentation that Anakin was ready to bury him in. “It’s rather beautiful.” One look from Anakin had shut him up for the entire evening. He had his word that when they made it back to the Temple, he was allowed to slice it to pieces with his saber until it was nothing but a smoldering, crumpled ruin of unidentifiable cloth and cracked stones. He was also not to take a single holo of him in it, no matter how much Senator Amidala plead or bargained.

However, he had quickly realized that the most dangerous part of his mission didn’t entail trying not to fall flat on his face while wearing three inch heels (how Padme managed the ‘dagger stilettoes’ that were over five he would never know, but he was going to bow down on his knees the next time he saw her), nor glaring at the men who gave his backside leering glances (he just about managed not to Force push that last one’s face straight into the buffet table), or even punching the last piece of kriffing, snorg-birthed, moose-goose snot brained –

I hate this, I hate this, I hatethis, IhatethisIhatethisIhatethis –

He almost tore his dress. Again.

No, the most dangerous part of his mission was none of the above. It was navigating the toxic snake pit filled with people he knew almost nothing about. Oh, some of them he had seen, certainly: thieves, murderers, drug dealers, and slave traders. They were up to their ears in nothing but filth and injustice, the lowest of the low, scum that he had to smile and play nice with like a mute, pretty girl with only three brain cells to her name would.

Anakin’s face hadn’t stopped burning the whole evening. He only prayed his embarrassment couldn’t melt away the layers of foundation and contour applied to his features. She’d even combed and fixed his hair, plating the strands into a short braid with ribbon that matched his dress, and flowers that curled into the elaborate cuffs around his ears. He hated the jewelry almost as much as the gown… the dainty chains in his lobes had snow drops on the ends, bearing sapphires so deep they appeared onyx. The choker around his neck was emblazoned with them as well, with diamonds that offset the ones on the dress.

He had to wear gloves. To cover up his mechanical arm, as if it were something to be ashamed of. Anakin managed to contain a growl, keeping his fan close to the lower portion of his face. He didn’t dare lower it, least someone find his jaw too strong, his neck too thick.

How can anyone believe this? Maybe everyone around him thought it was just as ludicrous, just as impossible that Anakin Skywalker liked to spend his Tuesday evenings dressed as a woman, strutting around some of the worst moss-pit vipers in the galaxy. He swallowed what remained of his pride.

Get the information. Get out. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Never like this he hadn’t.

He had the advantage of his height at least, his gaze straying over the facades in attendance, knowing his mark would favor a more private location. The mask they had given him was just insult to injury… It covered everything above his cheekbones, wrapping over the bridge of his nose. Carved from delicate ivory, with swirls and coils painted on in black at the top, fading to midnight blue around his eyes, and then a rich silver at the edges. The top of the brow split in a mane of feathers, mimicking the shades already present. According to Obi-Wan, it was meant to represent a delicate, blue bird found on a planet covered mostly in water in the furthermost reaches.

Anakin almost felt relieved when he saw his target in the throng of dignitaries. His mask wasn’t strapped on like his own was, dangling from his right hand, while his left arm remained occupied by a Togruta girl with red skin and yellow horns. He really did not need to be thinking of Ahsoka right now. What would she say if she could see him? She’d never stop talking about it. She’d probably sneak a holo or two just to save for future blackmailing purposes, because what sane Padawan would pass up the opportunity to have a picture of their Master all dressed up for the ball?

The man in question, with more gold than white or black in his mouth, was one Fren Pollock. After obtaining a hard-won pardon from the Republic – something that made Anakin’s teeth grind – he had somehow acquired a governorship on a small lunar colony. Drugs, munitions, and people, nothing was beneath him. Anakin found himself reveling in the notion of bringing him down, of dismantling his little empire into the dust, and taking all of his accomplices with him.

“Woah there, blondie.” A bodyguard. One of four. No armor, no weapons, as was the standard, per the request of the hosts.

[ I’m really terrible at writing scum bags, but Fren allows Anakin closer, only to drug him. Someone intervenes, of course, but after unmasking Anakin things go from bad to worse. Also, Dooku wears a Loth-wolf mask. - ]

“I believe the young Lady has had enough.” Anakin’s stomach dropped. He couldn’t breathe. His next whimper was stifled against a hard chest. Hands, warm and solid, one on his wrist, and the other on his back. Protective, almost tender, they held him steady against the taller man.

The chuckle that emanated from the Count tightened around his chest. The air left him, slipping free in a low, hoarse whimper. Dooku just laughed harder. Anakin didn’t dare raise his head to see the slice of his grin through his cheeks.

“My, my, this evening is just full of surprises.” Dooku’s sneer rippled through his already weak knees. They shuddered beneath him, leaving him to sway dangerously. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Skywalker, but considering this turn of events, I’m rather glad I did.” Red and blue. Anakin’s teeth clenched, jaw ringing with the pain, straight into his temples. He should jerk forward, smash his head into Dooku’s nose. Crimson and azure. Their sabers should clash, they always had, easy and familiar. Darkness and light, trading breath and edge, till one consumed the other. Mars and Venus. Planetoids too far to know, yet the tales of them were wreathed in the fantastical. The coin flipped, came down in a shower of sparks that were the shades of stars.

Dooku tasted like something bitter and yet sweet. It reminded Anakin of the grapes Padme had given him while they were visiting Alderaan, off a vine five years old. She said they were native to the planet, that they would keep the same fruits without dropping them for hundreds of years, but when they were plucked clean… they died. Those same plants were the reason the planet was known for its wine. She had challenged him to taste as many as he could, all the way up to the first century. They made his nose wrinkle, his vision darkening as his eyes squinted, then misted with tears he blinked away. He didn’t even get to twenty.

He still had the gift… the one Bail Organa had given him. He had winked at him, saying something about how even Jedi needed to have fun every once in a while. The crystal, ruby embossed bottle was hidden somewhere under his bunk, protected by his worn, old Padawan robes. He still didn’t know how a beverage made from fruit as old as Yoda was supposed to be a good.

“What are you doing?!” His head throbbed. His parted lips trembled, prickling with something he couldn’t name. Anakin’s cheeks were still burning, but a new heat had been added from the friction of the Count’s beard. Dooku’s hand gripped his bicep, the muscle throbbing beneath his hard palm. Anakin could feel the bruises forming, the pulse of blood beneath the surface. He’d torn away, smashing him into the wall, and he had… he had kissed Count Dooku, a known Sith Lord, and leader of the Separatist Systems Alliance. A tremble lanced through him, clinging to his muscles, till he felt as if he were going to shake straight out of his skin.

Anakin’s head twisted, turning away from Dooku, but his body wouldn’t follow as easily. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, thick with the ichor of whatever had been in his drink. He swallowed it back, trying to free himself of the Count’s hand with a sluggish, surly throw of his shoulder. He stumbled instead, pivoting dangerously close to the wall, but durasteel bands took hold of his waist. His body jerked, a whimper exiting his lungs as they compressed. The darkness crept into his vision, stifling him in the heat and musk of whoever held him.

“What have you done?” Far away, harsh and whispered. The syllables grated against his scorching ears. His throat ached with the sound that left him, high-pitched and terrible. His mouth contacted something solid and warm and smooth. He couldn’t help but rub his face into the warmth of that broad shoulder. Whoever held him smelled like heat and spice.

Padme and Obi-Wan sat across from him, laughing as his face twisted. He had grown up a poor boy on Tatooine, you didn’t just waste food, no matter how much you didn’t like it. Which meant swallowing down whatever you were given, which meant he was willing to try anything once. Even the boiled bark of a strange planet. It was not the taste, but the brittle texture on his tongue. Citrus and tang, almost metallic in its bite, sliding down his throat with the same viscosity of honey, and the viciousness of alcohol.

That was the smell that surrounded him now, sharp and distinct. There was something overtop, layered on to smooth the undercurrent of that wild, intoxicating aroma. Anakin almost thought it was… roses. Yes, roses. Extravagant and sweet, enough to hide the Loth-wolf’s true scent.

[ Dooku makes a strategic retreat, taking Anakin with him back to his room… Mistake. The drug is in him now, and inhibition is taking a nosedive straight into hell. He puts Anakin in his room, where he struggles out of the dress, tearing off the jewelry, and rubs at his face. The Count returns after a thunderous crash, effectively shattering every bottle in his private bar. Not good… He returns to the room, submerged in darkness, standing at the end of the bed… ]

Anakin trembled beneath his own pride.

The moonlight splayed over his shoulders, weaving through his white hair, curving over the hard edges of the right side of his face. His eyes, cheeks, lips, chin, his entire face lost to the shadows. Anakin could see nothing of him, but he could imagine the furrow of his brow, the pull of his mouth into that familiar sneer. Or would his cheeks ripple with a snarl? He almost wished he could see him, the revulsion of his features, the cruel amusement preferable to the void that stared back at him.

He could feel something though, intangible as the Force, but as palpable as its presence. Dooku’s gaze. Those hard, dark orbs, piercing his bunched shoulders, his heaving chest, the tremble of his stomach.

He lost.

“Please…”

[ And this is as far as I got because I’m terrible. I’m not tagging this much either, because its a WIP. ]

#WIP

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roguedarkscribe · 6 years

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Here is that Handmaid’s Tale Star Wars thing I said I’d write 😳 I am so embarrassed.

Only three kinds of ships ever visit Naboo. Supply transports carrying food, medical supplies and some crates of trade goods; diplomatic consular ships transporting dignitaries most of them originating from the core systems of the Empire; and military transports loaded with weapons, and troops ready to use drop ships at any moment to take control of the surface and to shoot down any unidentified ships. In the early days of the newly formed empire the sounds of pulse canons and the crash of wrecked ships was a common occurrence. The night skies would light up with red flashes as the unfortunate ships trying to flee were hit and fires engulfed them as they fell back to the surface. By the following morning the news had already named them terrorists and spies but everyone knew the truth even though no one dared to say it out loud.

Padme sometimes wondered how many of those ships actually made it. She wondered where they went after they got past the naval ships. But most of all she wondered if she would have been on one of those lucky vessels if she had taken the chance to flee when it had been offered to her. Maybe she would have found Anakin by now. If he was still alive. She hoped that he was. She hoped he knew she was still alive too. The news of the bombing at the Senate had listed her as one of those killed. But in reality it was Sabe. The bombing had left several thousand public servants dead and their deaths had ultimately been deemed an act of terrorism orchestrated by the Jedi Order. Padme had watched the broadcasts of the Jedi Temple burning. For once she had been glad Anakin was so far away from the capital. But overall she had never been more terrified. Jedi were dying all across the galaxy killed by their own soldiers at the orders of Chancellor Palpatine. Was Anakin among them? She prayed he wasn’t.

A knock at the door caught her attention. On instinct she stood, adjusting her posture, her back straightening and her hands folding across her lap with her head bowed as the door opened. “Good evening, Sabe,” Teckla greeted. The young servant’s eyes never meeting hers.

“Good evening, Teckla,” Padme returned. If there was one blessing in this entire mess, it was that by pure chance her third house assignment had placed her in the same household her friend had been assigned to serve. The young girl had known immediately who she was and being here was the first time in nearly a year where she felt safe being herself if only for a little while.

Teckla shut the door behind her, her eyes glancing at every corner of the room, fear reflecting as clear as the waters at Varykino in her eyes. “I found them,” She whispered. Her fingers shook as she held out a piece of flimsi towards her. Eagerly Padme took it from her and opened it. Printed on the surface was an image of two toddlers sitting side by side playing in what looked like a playroom in a daycare. The boy had short blonde hair and blue eyes and a wide smile as he held a spaceship towards the girl at his side. She had the same wide toothy grin as the boy, her brown hair pulled into two loose buns on either side of her head as she reached her hands out to grab the toy from him. Padme touched a hand to her chest, tears filling her eyes as the looked at the image of the babies. Her babies. Anakin’s babies.

She hasn’t seen them since they had been pulled from her arms when she had been assigned her new role in this Hell. If she’d had them with her, she would have taken the offer to leave when she’d had the chance. Padme traced her fingers over the image, wishing she could pull them from the image and into her arms again.

“The address is on the back,” Teckla whispered.

She smiled as she looked up to meet her friend’s eyes. “Thank you,” She said. “I know how dangerous this was.”

Her head bowed like it used to when she worked for her, “Nothing is too dangerous for you, my lady.” Her head quickly turned back to the door as if she heard something, “I should go, she whispered. Teckla didn’t even give a goodbye before she quickly fled the room, the door shutting behind her, leaving Padme alone once again.

The bed creaked as she sat on the edge. Flipping the flimsi over she read the address that had been hastily jotted down. It was in a town about one standard hour away. Not close enough for her to pass on her daily mandated walks. Her head spun with ways to get to her children but none were possible with all the restrictions placed on her and people like her. But now she knew where her children were. Wasn’t that worth the risk? Once she had them she could find a way off world. She could try and find the Rebellion that had slowly started to take shape. Even here there were whispers of their actions in the Outer Rim. Some say they are a group run by disgruntled senators from the former Republic. Others say they have Jedi in their ranks. If anything she has heard is true, than it may be a chance to give her children some freedom and if they were lucky, maybe she would finally be able to make contact with Anakin. But that still left the question of how she was going to get them off world. And the chance of even getting that far was slim. Padme laid down on the bed with a heavy sigh. What was she going to do?

Ceremony days. For the most part her new role in society was easy to deal with. Do the shopping, attend gatherings, pray… the Ceremony and the months that may follow were unbearable. The Emperor deemed it a “reward” for some of his most loyal subjects. Each world had a set of judges that ranked a small group of women by their beauty and their fertility. The process was abhorrent, chauvinistic, and humiliating on every level. The so called “reward” Palpatine promises those deemed worthy was a child. Children born by the new class named the Handmaids were given special rights and privileges that filter through to the immediate families of the child. The children of the Empire are given the very best. Health care, education, wealth, an all but guaranteed position in the galaxy when they become of age… all of it was a means of control. Such gifts would help placate those in power and those with wealth that could challenge the new regime while at the same time fostering the growth of the next generation.

As for the Handmaids, their rights were practically nonexistent. Once a month their host family would spend a night trying to impregnate them and the rest of the time they were servants. And for those who do manage to conceive, once the baby is born and they are weaned off breast milk, they are forced to leave the child as if nothing happened. It was cruel. It was a violation of natural rights. But the war, the attacks, the fear… it all worked to keep the system working. Padme knew fear could only hold it together for so long. But with Palpatine’s power virtually unlimited for the moment, there was no telling how long it would take before the cracks started to take shape.

Padme stayed cloistered in her small bedroom all day. When she had been trained on what Ceremony days should be like, she had been told it was her duty to pray she would conceive, and that the child would grow to be a loyal subject in the Empire, to fill her thoughts with the glory of the Empire, and to regard her duty as her contribution to that glory. Padme was not so foolish to believe such lies. But the psychological torment of the training Handmaids had to endure certainly put enough fear into making them at least pretend they did.

Her stomach tightened as the sun started to set. It was nearly time. Instinctively her hand fell down to her stomach again. At her last assignment she had conceived. She bore that family a son. A boy she saw maybe for two hours a day for six months before she left and was forced into this new household. She felt nothing. Nothing but dread at the prospect of it happening again. The clock in the foyer downstairs chimed, signaling the end of the last hour of her cloister. This would be the last night. In her final prayer before heading downstairs to start the Ceremony, Padme prayed that she would find Anakin. She prayed that she would get her children out of this place. But most importantly, she prayed that the Empire would fall.

To be continued???

Should I post on ff.net???

I honestly don’t know!

#writing test #story preview?#to continue or not to continue?#star wars #anidala #dystopia

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