Star Wars: Dark Angel's Embrace

Watching the scene through hidden holocameras, the High Lord Inquisitor Tremayne pulled his own nostrils wide in a disgusted sneer. "Trash," he hissed through his teeth.

"One must admit, Lord Inquisitor," his younger male aide interjected, "she is effective."

"Oh yes, effective. Effective in befouling a noble profession, to which I have dedicated my life, with her harlot ways."

The aide looked nervously about their antechamber. "Patience, my Lord. With all due respect to your wisdom and greatness, I feel the need to advise you keep your voice down in regard to our newest Enforcer." He awkwardly cleared his throat.

The older man turned in his seat, looking down his long aquiline nose at his aide. "Meaning?"

The younger man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "There have been rumors, my Lord. Rumors that connect Enforcer Sa'thraxxx with—"

"I know perfectly well with whom she is affiliated, Braxone," The High Lord murmured stoically. Braxone opened his mouth to warn him again, but was cut off by a curt wave of Tremayne's hand as Lylla spoke again through the speakers.

"Ah," Lylla sighed, her smile darkly satisfied, "you are not so old that you no longer appreciate the scent of a woman, hmmm?" She chuckled again as the old man choked and writhed under her. "Yes, it is hard to resist. They say that scent is the greatest aphrodisiac there is, driving men into a frenzied state of lust. Hopefully, the squadron of stormtroopers holding your daughter has been able to keep themselves in check."

The old man stilled, and his aged eyes gaped in horror. "Wh...what?"

Lylla straightened her long legs, bending at the waist and tipping her head down until her eyes were parallel to the old man's. "Oh, did I not mention that before? My apologies." She pulled herself up to her full height. "She wasn't at all hard to find. A simple cross-reference of your name in the Imperial databanks told us of her location. And she was right here on Coruscant, of all places. How convenient." She initiated the remote on her belt again, and the torture wheel rolled up and forward again.

"No, NO!" begged the old man as her whirled forward. "Please, she doesn't know anything about this—"

"Would you like to see her?" Lylla asked. Another flick of a tiny switch, and a hologram shot from the projector in the wall. A young woman was bound to a chair, her clothes ripped, mouth gagged, her eyes swollen, red, and terrified. Around her stood several white-armored stormtroopers, some with their helmets and gloves off. Their laughter was guttural and harsh as they groped her breasts and ran their hands through her thick brown hair. The girl cried through her gag, trying to writhe out of their reach.

The old man wails pealed off the sterile ceiling. Planting herself in front of him, Lylla picked a comlink off her belt and brought it to her lips. "They have behaved themselves, so far. But when the commander receives my order, they will partake of your daughter in any manner they like. My," her smile grew wider, " 'bonus' to them, for a job well done in retrieving her so quickly."

"Please," sobbed the old man, hanging limply in his bonds, "please don't do this..."

"I won't," Lylla answered simply, raising her brows. She stepped toward him. "If you tell me where that ship went, and who your Rebel contact is. You tell me, and she goes free. It's easy."

He panted hard, his eyes slit. "You malignant bitch."

"Tch," Lylla clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Again, wrong answer." She flicked the comlink on. "Commander—"

"NABOO!" he cried. His face compressed into an anguished grimace. "We decoded the shipping orders, and sent it to Naboo."

"Naboo," she breathed. She chuckled. "Of course. And who got you those codes?" Lylla pressed herself against him. "Who?"

He swallowed hard, and sunk his head. "A free Wookiee named Chewbacca. He was a smuggler who now works with the Rebel Alliance. He has access to many Imperial shipping codes."

"And where is he?"

"I...don't know."

"Really?" she sighed. "She lifted the comlink again. "Commander—"

"I DON'T KNOW!" he screamed. "I don't know where he is! Don't, please DON'T! I DON'T KNOw..." His cracked voice receded into hysterical sobs.

Lylla considered the weeping, broken elder for a moment before switching on the comlink. "Commander, Enforcer Sa'thraxxx here. Return the detainee to her home." She paused, piercing her silver-hued gaze into the old man's crying eyes. "In your own time, of course." She turned and paced away.

"Please, don't let them hurt her," he pleaded.

Sa'thraxxx stopped and explained over her shoulder, "Examples must be made, my misguided, foolish old friend. The galaxy must acknowledge that those who spit in the face of our glorious Emperor will find justice swift and ruthless."

"Justice?" he wept bitterly. "You mean vengeance."

She turned back and sighed, "Whatever."

With a press of one last button on her belt, the old man's heart exploded in his chest as one last vicious current coursed through him. His broken lifeless body slumped on the torture wheel.

Lylla drew a long, shuddering breath. She clenched her sex to keep the wash of arousal from soaking her suit, and her hand unwittingly slid up her waist to grasp her breast. Slowly, she walked to the wall and leaned against it, her head bowed against her arm. A particularly effective torture session always left her feeling like this-- wanting, frustrated, sad, and very, very alone. "Where are you?" she breathed, her lips trembling as a single tear rolled down her alabaster cheek. "Please. Give me some sort of sign..." A sob shocked her throat. "I need you...I need you..."

She jerked up, suddenly aware that she was still being recorded. Hurriedly, she straightened herself, breathed, wiped the smudge of moisture from her eyes. Striding to the door, she palmed the lock-- and found herself face to face with the High Lord Inquisitor Tremayne and his aide standing on the other side.

Lylla cocked an eyebrow. "Did you get all that?"

"It has been recorded and is being sent to Intelligence Director Isaard as we speak, Enforcer Sa'thraxxx," the young aide answered, then cowered slightly at the sharp glance from his older superior.

The display did not escape Lylla's attention. With a smirk and a nod, she chirped, "Good," as she lazily brushed through the two men and made her way down the corridor.

"Enforcer Sa'thraxxx!" Tremayne bellowed after her, "A word with you!"

Lylla never broke her long strides as she turned over her shoulder. "I'm sure we can discuss whatever you wish in my rest chamber, High Lord."

The High Lord turned a deepened purple. "Who exactly does that strumpet think she is?" he bit through his teeth as he burst after her. He, however, kept his anger in check as he followed her, saving it for the privacy of her chambers.

A turn of a corner and a few more steps brought them to Lylla's suite. She palmed the door and, without acknowledging her, threw her lead-weighted gloves at the young human slave girl inside. The girl scrambled to catch them, then lowered her head in reverence to the High Lord Inquisitor and his aide.

Lylla came about the large chair in front of her mirror and dropped herself in it. "And to what to do I owe the pleasure of this personal visit, High Lord?" she crooned as she stretched her long arms over her head.

Tremayne wasted no time with pleasantries. "Who authorized your use of a squad of troopers?" he barked.

Lylla raised an eyebrow at his mirrored reflection. "I needed authorization? I was under the impression that Enforcers are provided complete autonomy."

"Within the confines of interrogation! Bringing in a family member is used ONLY when all other means of interrogation have failed! An old man like that wouldn't have lasted five more timeparts. There was no need to threaten in his daughter!"

Lylla spun the chair round to face him fully, lifting one long leg up to drape over the other. "He confessed, didn't he? We know where the slave ship is, and we know who sent it there." She snapped her fingers hastily at the young slave, who immediately came to her and began gingerly taking out the pins holding Lylla's intricate hairstyle. Lylla rested her head back. "I fail to understand this sudden bout of compassion, High Lord, particularly where the Rebels are concerned."

"Chaos with compassion!" Tremayne countered crustily. "Do you know the COST of authorizing a squad of troops?"

"There's a cost?"

He folded his arms within the sleeves of his sumptuous dark red robe as he took a long, calming breath. "Yes, Sa'thraxxx, there are costs. Overtime, fuel, transmission fees for holomessages, administration fees, and so on. Do you think credits are limitless? Not to mention the public display of those troops dragging the girl from her home--"

She narrowed her eyes. "Meaning?"

"The destruction of Alderaan did not exactly have the effect the Emperor had anticipated." The High Lord explained. "There have been numerous reports of even more insurgencies rising, even here on Coruscant. And now with the obliteration of the Death Star--"

"The destruction of the Death Star has merely tipped the scales, my Lord, not toppled them," Lylla murmured smoothly. A strange smile pulled her lip. "Are you not familiar with the Tarkin Doctrine?"

"Of course," he huffed.

"Then how can you argue my methods? If the only way to govern a principality as vast as an entire galaxy is through FEAR, then we, as His Majesty's Inquisitors, are truly his finest weapons. Which do you believe is more frightening, High Lord-- a battle station that you can plainly see?" She lifted her silver eyes. "Or the eyes watching from the shadows that you can not?" She smiled cruelly. "This is hardly the time to relax our grip, High Lord. If anything, we must tighten our hold even further on the hearts and minds of the populace."

The High Lord glared at Lylla for a brief moment. Then, quite unexpectedly, he chuckled. "You are an ambitious woman, Sa'thraxxx. But you are hardly Grand Moff Tarkin."

Lylla's malicious grin disintegrated, and her serpentine eyes slit. "Not yet." Suddenly, she spun her chair around, using its momentum to backhand her slave full force across the face. "What have I said about PULLING?" she flared.

The girl cried out and dropped the pins and combs she held, bringing shaking hand to her cheek. "Forgive, my Lady," the girl rasped, her eyes cast to the floor. "Your hair just grows so fast...the pins get snarled, it is difficult to remove them."

Lylla glared at her slave briefly before pursing her lips. She was correct, of course. Her first-- and so far, only--coupling with Vader had exposed her to the Dark Side of the Force. Since then, her hair grew at an alarming rate. Every morning, her slave girl would cut forty or more centimeters from her head. By nightfall, it had grown to the small of her back thicker, longer, and more abundant. Some days it would have to be cut twice.

She raised her hand, setting a delicate finger on the girl's cheek. "Just...be...careful," she advised in a throaty murmur, sliding the finger down her throat, letting it brush just slightly over the girl's small breast before dropping it back into her lap. Spinning the chair back round, she leaned her head back. "Continue." The humiliated girl, blushing profusely, picked a clean comb from the dressing table and resumed her work on Lylla's black-streaked scarlet hair.

Sa'thraxxx opened one silver eye, glancing down her nose at Tremayne. "You're still here?" She sighed wearily, waving a lazy hand. "Fine-- from now on, no troops without your expressed authorization, High Lord. Understood." When awaited response did not come immediately, she opened the other eye. "Was there anything else?"

A slow, sour smile of derision cut across Tremayne's sagging face. "By all dimensions of the Force," he chuckled dimly, shaking his head, "what does Lord Vader possibly see in you?"

The slave girl gasped, dropping her second comb on the durasteel floor. Even the silver protocol droid stationed in the suite's corner reacted, raising his metal hands in front of his plastine eyes and turning into the wall. Tremyane's aide rolled his eyes back and seemed to shrink several centimeters down into his robes, as if that could possibly hide him from the repercussions of Tremayne's foolhardiness. But Tremayne held his ground in the thick silence of the room, the smirk still smeared across his face as he awaited this harpy's hysterical reaction...

But even as rage simmered under the delicate ivory of her complexion, Lylla remained as cool and poised as an assassin's dagger...and smiled.

Slowly she rose from her chair, uncoiling to her full stature before—and over—him. Placing her slim hands upon her hips, she leaned in, just brushing the satin of her cheek against his, and her breath rolled gently over his ear as she whispered, "Would you like me to ask him for you when he returns, High Lord Tremayne?"

Tremayne remained still, staring directly ahead, before his harsh chuckling broke the thick silence. "IF he returns, Enforcer Sa'thraxxx." His grin spread even wider as he felt her face change against his cheek. "Three months since the Death Star's demise, and still no word from The Dark Lord. You honestly believe His Majesty's propaganda, that Lord Vader is alive and well and currently hunting those responsible for the Death Star?" He chuckled. "Your girlish trust decries your inexperience, Lady. We who have served the Emperor for significant years know better."

Lylla froze as Tremayne pulled away from her, her eyes cast down as she fought to remain composed. He glanced at the protocol droid in the corner. "I commend Lord Vader on his choice of tutors for you, my dear. Instead of a coarse, uncultured whore, you've become a somewhat more sophisticated one." He gestured to his aide, who was more than happy to follow his direction toward the door. Tremayne remained a brief second longer to glare Lylla down. "You strut your arrogance on borrowed time, Sa'thraxxx," he reminded her lightly before casually striding through the door.

Lylla glared at the floor, her fists curling, her knuckles whitening. "Get out," she whispered.

Her slave maid knit her brow. "My Lady?"

"Get out," Sa'thraxxx repeated in a low growl.

Scared and confused, the slave girl hesitated at first. But when she saw her Lady's chest heave in harsh, violent breaths, she made an attempt toward the door, only to find her mistress was blocking her way.

Lylla spun round, her silver eyes flashing, her lip pulled from her teeth in an animal snarl. "Are you fucking deaf???" Seizing the arms of the heavy chair, she screamed, "I SAID GET OUT!" before hurling it across the room. The girl screamed in kind, throwing her arms over her head and rushing past her mistress out the door. The protocol droid, far slower than his human counterpart, hobbled as fast as he could toward the door, only to be struck several times by bottles and jars his mistress threw at him.

Lylla hurled her arms across her dressing table. Bottles, brushes, pins and small pots flew in all directions, shattering against the walls, spilling on the floor. Cosmetic powder exploded into the air, creating a billowing haze that snowed lightly on her as she slumped to her knees and howled her anguish into the floor.

Tremayne was right, and she knew it. Right about her, and about Vader. "He's dead," she whispered before exploding into tears. Her body racked violently with every word, every sob. "I don't belong here, I'm...I'm not good enough...I try to be like them...but they hate me...I should never have come here, I should have gotten on that supply cruiser..." She wiped her soaked face. "But he...offered this. How could I say no? He was...kind to me. No one has ever been..." She stopped, and her lip trembled. "What did he see in me...?"

Her chest hurt. She sat up slightly, still weeping, and rubbed between her breasts as she attempted to calm herself. The pain, however, increased rather than subsided, becoming sharper, like a burn: She could feel the heat seer through her leather bodice to her palm. Her despair quickly ignited into panic as it grew hotter, singing her skin, and she smelled the tang of flesh burning.

She sprang to her feet, her cries sharp and frantic as she stood before the mirror and ripped at the buckles of her bodice. She tore the bodice wide open, and gasped fiercely as she gawked into the mirror.

The brand between her breasts, the Sithskrit symbol signifying Vader's possession of her, flared a ferocious scarlet, bubbling and seething under her skin. A fine wisp of smoke rose to drift into her nostrils; but when she hesitantly raised her hand and dared touch it, the heat had dissipated, and was cool to the touch. Her breaths were short and shallow as she furiously tried to understand what was happening...and a wave of elation swept over her as new tears squeezed from her eyes.

Vader was alive. And he was here, on Coruscant. He had, quite literally, given her the sign she had asked for.

Her door chimed at that very moment. Caked in powders and perfumes and clutching her bodice closed, Lylla hurried to the door and palmed the panel. On the other side stood High Inquisitor Tremayne flanked by two hulking, black-armored Black Hole Imperial Stormtroopers.

Tremayne's demeanor had taken a turn since his last visit only moments earlier—his jowls seemed to sag even lower, as did his posture, and his eyes were that of a cornered womprat. Lylla watched him struggle to meet her gaze. "It seems," he croaked before clearing his bulbous throat, "that I have underestimated our Lord Vader."

A crooked smile tugged Lylla's full lips. "Yes, it seems you have."

"Enforcer Sa'thraxxx," the Black Hole Commander addressed her, "we have orders to bring you to Lord Vader's fortress."

Lylla exhaled in glee, then frowned slightly as she spun and quickly looked in the mirror. Wet streaks of black kohl and white powder slashed her face, her hair was wild and disheveled, and her leather bodysuit was caked in cosmetics. She looked dreadful.

She turned back over her shoulder, and drew a long, calming breath. "I will need a few moments to prepare myself."

"As you wish, Lady," The Trooper replied.

"Lady," Lylla repeated in an absent whisper. She smiled again. "Yes...a few moments..."

* * *

She tore about her suite, from dressing area to fresher and back again, her frenzied movement only interrupted by a few moments of quick decision. Makeup? Not enough time—just wash. Clothing rained all over the suite as Lylla ripped her wardrobe apart. This dress? No, too many laces...No, not this one, too complicated...yes, yes this one! Hair—oh gods, my HAIR...!

The few moments Lylla requested clicked away, and her door finally slid open. Tremayne glanced up from the floor, and raised an eyebrow. She stood in the door, breathless and wild-eyed, and Tremayne couldn't help but be reminded of a thoroughbred equaa rearing against its gate before a race. Her pale oval face was fresh and scrubbed, completely clean of the heavy cosmetics she usually wore. Hastily and loosely tied behind her neck, her black and scarlet hair spilled down her back, with just a few messy tendrils veiling her face. Silver eyes sparked with feral eagerness, lips wet and parted and, if Tremayne didn't think he knew her better, he could almost say that she struck a likeness of unbridled innocence.

She threw a scarlet shimmersilk wrap over her simple clingy black dress. "I'm ready."

"Very good, Lady," the Commander replied, nodding his helm in affirmation as he stepped aside to let her pass. She took a few steps forward, but stopped suddenly, and slowly turned around. The purity that had temporarily graced her features was gone, and the arrogant glint had returned to her silver eyes.