Chapter Text
Outside the window, the planet glows with light. Not natural light, but with artificial light in neon that gleams far too bright. As high up as I am, it doesn’t bother me too greatly, doesn’t manage to quite reach my wide windows and large balcony, but there are lights glowing in here too. There’s a celebration, after all, a celebration for me, for my new engagement to a man that makes my stomach turn and sour, even as I paste on a smile to accept the congratulations of those that move around us and don’t squirm away from the arm that’s wrapped possessively around my waist, too tight. I try not to look at him, at this old man with his soft hands and the wrinkles deep on his face and the grey hair cut short in an attempt to hide the colour. He’s pale, paler than me and I’ve never stepped foot off of Coruscant and seen a proper sun unfiltered by barriers and buildings, which is only emphasized by the black that he wears, a silent support for the Empire that’s supposedly fallen.
Disgust clenches at my stomach, only made worse by the fizzy alcohol I drink. The Empire isn’t dead. The Empire exists in this very room, in the man my father sold me to, in my father himself. I was born into this, should support it, should be proud to be married to a former Inspector General of the Imperial Forces, but I just feel ill. I know how to hide it. My mother taught me. My mother taught me many things, including how terrible the Empire was, as she whispered stories of how the world had been before they took over, of freedom and warmth and her childhood on a planet named Alderaan. The things she couldn’t teach my older brother. She was stolen, rather than sold. My father saw her on Alderaan not long after the rise of the Separatists, saw her as she picked flowers on the side of a mountain, barefoot in the long grass, and he took her, when she’d been barely fourteen, because he thought her beautiful.
For all the things he’d been wrong about, Father had been correct in that Mother had been beautiful, with long golden hair and big blue eyes that always looked at me with love, even though I’d been a product of my father’s abuse. That abuse, in the end, killed her and, now, I’m stood with a fixed smile on my face and a false laugh spilling from my lips as my betrothed strokes his hand over my hip and his long fingers squeeze and knead at my flesh. I know I’m soft from a life of indulgence. He told Father that he liked that about me, laughed about having something to hold onto, and Father had chuckled along with him and agreed. They say such things now, them and the other officers, and more than one of them lets their hands linger on my skin and their eyes linger on my chest. Is this what they did to Mother?
“Long live the Empire,” is spoken throughout the night, growing louder the more they drink. I automatically recite it too. A lifetime taught me how to, how to smile through the bile on my tongue, how to smile when you want to scream, how to smile through all the lies. It serves me well tonight, allows me to settle into autopilot. My hands don’t shake when I discard the empty glass and collect a full one from the silent slave. Of course, we aren’t allowed to call them slaves anymore, since the new government has outlawed such things, but the Twi’lek is a slave and we all know it. She’s new, this one dark purple in colour, in comparison to the last’s bright orange colours, and her name is Kib’nafi, I think. As terrible as it sounds, there are so many that their names merge and blend together.
The night wears on, my feet aching and my smile tightly fixed in place and my cheeks throbbing from the effort, and the men have got their entertainment. Females of varying species, including Kib’nafi, grind and wriggle in their laps as the men guffaw and grope and pull at the females’ skimpy clothing. No one, not even my betrothed, who’s far too invested in watching a Rodian female squirm and fight against the numerous men holding her against the floor to remove her clothing, notice me slip away with guilt souring my tongue. I cringe when one of them cries out behind me, a plead for me to stay, or a plead for the men to stop, I don’t know, but I don’t stay to find out. I step into my bedroom and lock the sliding door, before beginning to the slow, arduous task of unravelling my long hair from its elaborate style. Tears burn at my eyes, but, again, a lifetime of training has taught me to keep them at bay as the cries grow louder and so does the laughter.
Is this what they did to my mother? All those years ago, when Father took a liking for her and decided to steal her away? He only married her because he got her pregnant with my brother. Carsvic got killed in the war against the Rebels, though, and, even then, Father spent little time on him. Mother mourned him, despite how he’d followed Father around, dismissive of Father’s complete disdain for him, and had used his fists on her more than once. For whatever reason, Father has never subjected me to the same treatment, never even slapped me, though I had witnessed him lashing out at Carsvic before my brother’s death, but I suppose I’m more valuable untouched. That’s what the men say, that they like a clean canvas, someone to break in. A shudder rolls down my spine at being treated like those poor, poor females out in the main living space of our luxury apartment.
How is that such behaviour is still acceptable with this new regime in place? How did my father, a higher ranking officer for the Empire, somehow not get arrested like many others? How did all of those men manage to avoid arrest and punishment? My father would be horrified at my thought process, would sneer and call me an idiot, and then tell me that I wouldn’t have all of my luxuries if he’d been arrested and thrown away with the rest of them. It’s true. I don’t even know what life is like off of this planet. I’ve never been anywhere. Mother told me of Alderaan and some of the slaves, when I was far younger and not as well taught, told me of their home planets, but stories and pictures are not reality. With my impending marriage to that awful man, it’s unlikely that I ever will, though he speaks of a home on Scarif.
Someone screams. Someone else laughs. I sigh, leave my blonde hair loose to my waist, change into my nightgown, and slide into my bed for a sleepless night.
The slave – this one a human girl, barely more than fifteen – is silent, eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying, bottom lip swollen with a blood crusted cut going through it, as she carefully braids my hair and pins it into elaborate twists, the thick ropes of hair hanging in loops to my shoulders. A thick, black and silver headband sits at the forefront of my skull to keep any flyaway strands in place. At least her hands don’t shake. I watch it all in the large, obnoxious mirror that takes up most of the space against the right-hand wall of my bedroom, a disturbingly blank expression on my face. It’s strange not to have some false sentiment plastered across my features. There are no cosmetics on my face yet, showing the paleness to my flesh, the dark marks beneath my eyes from the lack of sleep, and the bitten, chapped quality to my lips. I have a habit of catching the edge of the top one beneath my teeth and biting down hard when no one’s looking. No one ever really looks at me, so it happens often. With my hair done, she moves onto my face, carefully applying the powder and liquid to hide my imperfections (the dark marks under my eyes, the mole near the back of my jaw on the left side, the slight spot forming near the crease of my nose).
By the end of it, with dark red lips and dark rimmed eyes, I look like a different person completely as I finally rise and drop the silk robe so that the girl can dress me in the two-piece outfit my betrothed had delivered to me. I despise it. I have to wear it, though, else there’ll a punishment and I dread to think what it would be. So, I let the black fabric get placed on me, a cropped shirt that stretches over my shoulders to make long sleeves, but still somehow has no back. It has a triangle shape cut beneath my breasts, revealing my midriff, while the skirt is long, sitting low on my hips, and has a long slit going up to my right thigh. I hate it all of it, but I nod and gesture for the girl to fetch my coat, which is a thick, silver, floor-length piece lined with fur.
I know better than to thank the slaves (even Mother had warned me of kindness, how it could be twisted and turned against a person), so I stride past her with an order to get my room cleaned. There are clothes all over the floor, bed still messy from this morning, and there are food wrappers and plates strewn across the surfaces. She nods, eyes on the floor, and I don’t look at her again as I adjust the heavy, glittering bracelet around my wrist and head out of the apartment to where the speeder is waiting with the driver. A look has him putting the roof on rather than leaving it off and potentially ruining the slave’s hard work. My heart thumps a little harder against my ribcage the closer we get to Uscru district. I’m not a fan of this part of the Coruscant, as most of it belongs to the criminal underworld, but I suppose I and most of my family are part of that criminal life now, what with the Empire no longer being in power. A shiver runs through me and I pull my coat tighter around me, black painted nails flashing in the neon lights we zip past. I stare at them, at these lights I’ve been staring at my whole life, and feel the familiar, curling, black hate crawling through my veins. At least that can be disguised easily enough. Sometimes, though, I wonder if the hate I feel is only the hate that my mother injected into me so she wouldn’t be alone in this pit.
The speeder comes to a stop, the bright red flashing various colours as the lights from the surrounding building change rapidly. The driver opens the top, steps out, and offers his gloved hand to me to assist me in exiting the vehicle. I accept. There’s no point in tripping and embarrassing myself through pride. I don’t thank him for it, don’t even offer him a second glance, as I make my way into the restaurant and am immediately escorted to where my betrothed sits with three other men. All three of them are vaguely familiar, though no one that I know well. Their names pop into my mind as I greet them with a well-practiced smile and sink into my seat when my betrothed gestures for me to. Of course, it’s too close to him and he immediately places a hand on my right thigh, of course sliding into that slit in the skirt.
“I must say, Yasinda, you have certainly grown into a lovely young woman,” one of the men smiles at me, slimy and sleazy. He’s Harcorn Ellar, not that high ranking before the loss of the war, but moving higher up now that there’s few left. I incline my head politely and lift my glass in acknowledgement of his compliment. “Jacoamar here is going to be kept very busy with you,” he informs me with an obvious look over my torso, lingering on my chest.
“I get first dibs, Harcorn,” my betrothed interjects, squeezing my thigh and rubbing his thumb very high up against my inner thigh.
My heart momentarily lurches into my throat, though a lifetime of training stops any of it showing on my face, at his wording. First dibs? Does he plan on sharing me? The mere thought of him touching me leaves me nauseated, let alone the rest of them. From the way they’re now joking and jesting and discussing their various plans, Jacoamar clearly does plan on handing me out, like an object to be passed around on a whim, like a slave. I am no slave. I am the daughter of Andosca Solvan. However, he doesn’t care much about passing females around like objects, especially if my thoughts on how he treated my mother are accurate. He won’t care. He’s selling me to the highest bidder as it is. He won’t care who does what to me when I’m no longer under his care and, therefore, no longer his concern.
These men discuss me, the things they want from me, what they’ll do with my body, as though it’s disposable, as though it’s simply there for their entertainment, and doesn’t possess a mind of its own. Perhaps the act of being a vapid little doll is played too convincingly. Behind my blank smile, though, plans are slotting into place. I refuse to be an object for these people. I refuse to let them do what they wish with me. It was bad enough when it would have just been the old, soft, wrinkled man my father sold me to, but to be given to whichever man decided he wanted to experience me? To touch me? It’s disgusting. It’s utterly abhorrent and I refuse to become what they think they can craft me into. My mother didn’t feed me stories of a galaxy out there, just beyond my fingertips, for me to become a plaything of disgusting old men.
At the end of the night, my betrothed sees fit to shove his tongue down my throat and grab at my chest and thighs and buttocks. I let it happen. It’s easier than fighting for the moment. When I finally step into the apartment, my clothes are wrinkled and there are bruises blooming on my pale flesh, including my lips. No doubt the paint on my lips is smeared across my face. Jacoamar didn’t exactly have any finesse. I shudder and step into the refresher, pouring mouthwash into my mouth and holding it there with my eyes squeezed tightly closed. I spit it out into the sink, then grab the sponge to scrub myself clean with little care of how the soap and water soaks my clothes and, no doubt, stains the silk irreparably. I don’t care. Someone else will deal with it, will pick it up off the floor. I just get to unravel my long hair and crawl into bed.
I need to get off of this planet.