Chapter Text
Count Dooku did not particularly fancy himself to be a man prone to bouts of sentimentality. It was one of those things, in his advancing years, that seemed to become less and less of a distraction. He always had found other, more worthy things to focus his attention and efforts on. But standing in the throne room, his throne room, and looking out onto the mountainous landscape, onto the lush forests, upon the capital of Serenno City far off in the distance, faintly visible by the lights of its sweeping architecture, he could hardly blame himself for letting old memories resurface.
How much simpler things had seemed back then. How much more naïve he had been.
Dooku sighed, the exhalation of his breath laden with the weight of the years he had spent trying to fix the mistakes of the past, both his own and those of the Jedi. Looking out upon the vista dredged up memories of how close events had conspired to a calamity that could have been easily avoided entirely had it been spotted early enough. And of how much had still been lost, never to be regained, all due to that most tantalizing of sins, hubris.
Dooku turned away from the large window, the circular etching of the House of Serenno engraved within it casting long striating shadows by the light of the funeral moon of Mantero and took a seat at his desk. For a long moment he simply sat there in contemplation, taking the opportunity the silence of the throne room granted to compile his thoughts, idly staring at the new set of paperwork and a datapad that lay strewn across the ornate counter. Deciding not to put off the matters of state any longer than he already had, Dooku once again began the arduous process of sorting through them, organizing them by importance and how soon he could get around to either dealing with them himself, or delegating them to someone else. It was a task that Dooku quietly despised, yet by contrast he found he had a unique aptitude for it as well. While he was taught to be fluent in all matters of politics as a consequence of his previous profession, there was little that Jedi training could do to prepare one for dealing with running a whole planet. He’d had to learn as he went most of the time.
Dooku had concluded long ago that it was for this very reason that the Jedi Order had become what it is now. He felt a scowl begin to creep along his brow, and Dooku forced the thought away, refocusing on the bill in front of him.
Ah, it seemed that an unfortunate series of pirate raids had resulted in a planet wide crisis to occur on Gradio along the edge of the Meram sector. Famine, shortages in medicine, increased crime rates, and more trouble besides. Ever the humanitarian sort, the barons and baronesses of the House of Demici were petitioning the Assembly for aide to be sent to help relieve the inhabitants of their plight, given how the Republic was taking its time to even notice that there was a crisis to begin with. Dooku affected contemplation, despite the fact there was currently no one present in the room to witness it. Then, with a few strokes of a stylus, resolutely declined the petition. He knew it would rile the nobles of Demici to have their request to be rejected out of hand, especially after the bureaucratic nonsense it no doubt took just to get him to look at the petition at all, but Dooku understood that Serenno had to look after itself for the time being.
There was still so much to be done.
He moved on to the next document, finding it to be more appealing to his own sensibilities. Funds were being requested for the construction of a new academy to be built in Carannia, one of the several capital cities of Serenno. Dooku spent much longer mulling this one over. The planet was still recovering from its trials, trials brought about by incompetent, if not outright corrupt, rulership. Ever since the abyssin occupation some years ago and the dismantling of any official military presence, it was all that Serenno and its people could do to stay afloat. It was only thanks to its sacanium mines and the bounty of wealth they provided that the planet was able to ward off the predations of the core world’s political climate, and much of the infrastructure had to either be retooled or replaced to accommodate. So many had lost their homes in the turmoil.
Dooku sighed, long and hard, as he thought. An academy would be of some benefit, both for the immediate present as it would go a long way towards establishing a certain public image, not only for the people and their culture but for the galaxy at large, but also for the future, which even now was still mired in uncertainty. While he thought, his eyes caught sight of a seal that had been attached to the document, and his brow quirked in mild confusion. The seal was his own, the very same that decorated his window, though he had no recollection of having seen the request before now.
His expression then turned to one of solemn amusement, as he put the pieces together. There was only one individual on the entire planet that possessed the authority, and the gumption it seemed, to be able to put the mark on the document. He could guess as to why. Were the seal absent, it was very likely that the request would never see the light of day, much less make it to his desk, forever to be lost among the thousands of other forms and petitions that were deemed too unimportant for the Count of Serenno to bother wasting his time on.
Jenza was hardly subtle with her machinations, but then that was usually the point where she was concerned.
Dooku set the document aside, making a note on the datapad to remind him of it later, and returned to his work.
He was unsure how long exactly he had spent pouring over the paperwork when a chime at the door of the throne room alerted him that there was a visitor requesting to see him. He glanced at the chrono, then at Mantero outside, seeing that it was well past what counted for midnight on Serenno. He scowled, rubbed at the bridge of his aquiline nose, wondering who would be so rude as to interrupt him at this hour. He reached out with his senses, still sharp despite the weariness he felt, and almost immediately the scowl disappeared as he reached under the desk to press a hidden switch.
“Enter,” he said, his basso voice sounding strange to his own ears from not having spoken aloud for several hours. The throne rooms doors parted with a barely audible rumble, and a human woman with a shoulder length wavy brown hair strode in. Dooku barely recognized her in this state, her hair usually done up in an elaborate bun atop her head and the formal attire that befitted nobility replaced by dark purple robes. The family resemblance was still there however, and despite everything Dooku could hardly keep the slight grin from peeking through his graying beard at seeing Jenza.
“Dooku, what are you doing up so late?” Jenza asked, her voice laced with a drawl that indicated that she had only just woken up from her own slumber. “Lepi tells me you’ve been in here for hours.”
“My apologies, dear sister,” Dooku said, genuinely meaning it despite the mild irritation he felt at the mention of the droid. He gestured to the much reduced, though still intimidating, stack of documents that still required his review. “As you can see, matters of the state conspired to occupy my attention.” He briefly contemplated bringing up the petition for the new academy but decided against it. He would broach the topic to her later, where it could be discussed in a more formal setting.
Jenza sighed through her nose, her displeasure at the answer dampened by what he could guess as some form of amusement. “That’s all well and good Dooku, but don’t you believe that your time would be better spent resting? It does not do for you to run yourself ragged, especially this late.” Dooku frowned, and Jenza’s expression turned sympathetic as she strode the rest of the way to the desk. She spared a glance at the datapad, seeming to search for something, before continuing. “I know what you are trying to do Dooku and trust me when I tell you that no one in this whole system is more deserving of a break than you.”
Dooku scoffed bitterly. “It is not about what I do or do not deserve Jenza,” he said, standing up to stride over to the window. The sun was still well below the horizon, but already he could begin to pick out the faint traces of purple and pink beginning to crest the distant mountains, the color creeping over them like a vibrant moss. “It is about how much left there is to do, how much more preparation needs to be made.” He looked back at her. “I realize that this undoubtedly is an unhealthy practice, but it is a necessary one.”
Jenza just looked at him, long and hard. “Dooku,” she said after a long moment, “you give too much of yourself. Even after everything, you’re still that selfless young Jedi I met all those years ago.”
Dooku, flinched slightly, memories of their reacquaintance surging their way to the forefront of his mind. How long ago had that been now? Decades at least.
“Still though,” Jenza pressed on, “after everything our planet has been through, I highly doubt taking a little time off for yourself is going to result in everything crashing down.”
“You would be surprised what a moments’ lapse in attention can do,” Dooku retorted, immediately regretting the barbed words when he saw his sister’s expression, usually so calm and full of understanding, fall into despondency.
“Very well,” she declared, seeing that she was not going to sway her brother, and began to turn away. She paused midstride, turned her head to regard him sadly. “Just. . . promise me one thing Dooku. Promise me you won’t try to carry the galaxy on your shoulders.”
Dooku had no answer for her as Jenza exited the throne room, leaving him alone once again. He eyed the documents, the datapad, looked at how much work still needed to be done. It always seemed that no matter how much he pushed himself, how much he strained to hold everything together, there was always so little to show for it.
It only occurred to Dooku in that moment that he had unclipped his lightsaber from his belt and was now looking at the curved hilt with a mix of forlorn regret at what might have been, and grim acceptance at the path he had chosen to walk.
It was all necessary, as he had told himself back then.
The promise she wanted of him. . . it was not one he could easily make.
Jenza did have a point though. If nothing else it would not do for the Count of Serenno to appear before the masses as a haggard, sleep deprived wreck of a man. Reattaching the lightsaber to the clip on his belt, it took an effort on his part to tear his gaze away from the forms that still needed him to look at before he solemnly made his way to his personal chambers to rest for what remained of the night.
Morning came and went, giving way to a cloudy afternoon that threatened a light shower later in the day. When Dooku had awoken that morning, the first thought in his mind was whether to finish his work in the throne room. Unbidden, Jenza’s words had come back to him from the previous night, accompanied by her worried face, and for a moment he’d had the silly fear of what she would do to him if she were to find him right where she had left him. And so, Dooku decided that it would be prudent of him to at least make sure he had performed his usual rituals.
Following a meager breakfast of dried meats and various vegetable stuffs, Dooku sat in the wide courtyard outside the palace, the oblong building casting a cooling shadow over him as he sat cross-legged on the cold stone. He did not close his eyes just yet, preferring to put off the exercise for a little while longer, content to let the sounds and smells of the planet pervade the air around him. The gentle trilling of distant avians, the susurration of leaves as the wind ghosted by.
Not at all like Coruscant.
With that, Dooku closed his eyes and rested his hands on his knees, letting his senses expand until they encompassed the courtyard and beyond. With effort he knew he could reach farther, narrow his focus to gleaning every detail from every stone. He had done so before, but this was not about effort. Instead, Dooku, let his mind drift and be swept up in the currents of the Force, feeling its ebb and flow like an eternal river.
He dove deeper, as he was taught, down to the depths. And with that breaking of the veil, Dooku felt that which he had been craving for so long and had at last found.
Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
The words came unbidden to him, and he felt his body echo them into the air.
Through strength, I gain power.
The words suffused him, blocking any of the doubts and misconceptions he may have initially had.
Through power, I gain victory.
His upbringing in the Jedi temple would have taught him to shun the very words that he was now speaking. They had been holding him back, to appease their ideals of truth.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall set me free.
With that last cant, Dooku felt the truth seep into him, as it done many times before. The truth as taught to him by his master, his true master, not the senile old codger whom he had left behind all those years ago. When he had first recited the mantra, he had done so with trepidation, as if fearing that a part of himself was being lost. Now, he could only feel satisfaction, and a twinge of shame that he had not accepted them sooner.
Something pricked at the edge of his senses, dragging him away from his meditation and forcing his focus to return to himself. He felt a scowl cross his face at the interruption. He heard the clank of metal feet on stone and did not even need to look to know it was the lepi droid coming to intrude on his exercise. He felt the lifeless machine trundle up to him, coming to a stop about a meter away, its mannerisms affecting an approximation of hesitation.
“What is it?” Dooku growled, his discontent with the droid growing.
Whether by programming or a genuine reaction, the rotund little servant droid seemed to start at the question.
“My lord Dooku,” it began, its synthesized voice tinny and laced with nervousness. “There is a message for you from the docking authority in Serenno City. They asked if you would be gracious enough to offer them advice on what to do.”
Dooku sighed, consigned to the fact that his meditation had been thoroughly botched. Even if he ignored the droid and the message it carried it would be some time before he could find the presence of self to resume. And as much as Jenza’s objections had convinced him to put them off, the forms and petitions still sitting on his desk rested in his memory. He stood, idly brushing at his tunic, already making a mental calculation of how soon he could be done with the matter.
“And what is so important that it requires my involvement? I would have believed that the fine people at the ports would have the necessary procedures and training in place to make it so that I do not have to micromanage.”
Must he do everything himself?
The droid made a motion akin to swallowing, a curious gesture that conveyed its hesitance to displease its master. “The docking authority felt that in this particular instance my lord, that you would have a personal interest,” it said, producing a small, disc-shaped holoprojector.
Dooku frowned, intrigue overriding his irritation, as he regarded the droid. There were a few things that could fall under the category the droid described, and if it was something that the docking authority in the capital felt was outside of their purview, then the list of what that was had been narrowed down considerably. A suspicion began to build in him, laced with a mild apprehension at its implication.
“Show me.”
Wasting no time in complying, the droid tapped a stubby metal finger on the holoprojector, grasped it between the ear-like prongs on its small head, and held aloft as high as it could manage. The device flared to life after a moment, and a three-dimensional image was displayed in a ghostly blue glow.
A ship. Some type of freighter Dooku could tell, though he was unfamiliar with the make and model, but it was clearly dated. Boxy in construction, with two large engine nacelles on either side, the craft was clearly designed for hauling cargo across vast distances. Alongside the image of the ship, bits of text were also displayed. Knowing that was likely where he was supposed to look, he read through the description of the ship quickly and thoroughly. Portions of the text were highlighted, denoting what the supposed the sender deemed to be pertinent enough information to make note of. Apparently, it was on a long-haul cargo run from somewhere in the expansion region and needed to make a stop to refuel.
He paused, and nearly did a double take when he looked more carefully at the description, noticing something that piqued his interest greatly.
The freighter was broadcasting Jedi ident codes.
Dooku frowned, as the suspicion within him began to twist into a deep-seated loathing.
“Prepare my transport.”
The flight to Serenno City was short, taking no more than a few minutes, though Dooku found himself wishing for it to take longer. As eager as he was to get to the bottom of this matter and deal with it personally, the Count felt an unfamiliar tug of emotion twisting inside him. He was not afraid, would never be afraid of the likes of the Jedi. But deep within himself, Dooku could not deny that there was a certain amount of apprehension that left his thoughts unquiet.
It had been years since any Jedi had set foot on Serenno, and he had made a great personal effort to ensure it stayed that way.
To distract himself, Dooku gazed out of the viewport of his personal ship, taking in the sights of the landscape as it smoothly blended into the familiar architecture of the capital. During the abyssin occupation, much of the city’s structure had fallen into various states of disrepair and ruin, and most of the other capitals had shared in the suffering. It was only recently that progress was finally starting to be made as Serenno was being restored to its former glory.
Off in the distance, near a deep fissure that penetrated deep into the crust of the planet, the tall spires of a mining factory in the final stages of construction could be seen. And from that, lines of hovertrains could be seen coming and going, hauling precious sacanium to spaceports across the planet.
Dooku found it distasteful to think of what might have happened were he not there to beat back the Republic’s mining guilds from stripping Serenno of all that it was worth, all while the Jedi stood idly by.
Dooku shook off the thought, reconcentrating his focus on the matter at hand as the transport approached the spaceport, the droid pilot bringing the ship about in a lazy circle in search of a suitable place to land. The spaceport itself was a multitiered construction, each platform several hundred meters across in all directions, allowing ample room for vessels of all kinds to deliver and receive their payloads. Everywhere one looked, people of various species and professions could be seen, either working or conversing. Humans and twi’leks were most prominent, but even as the ship landed Dooku could make out the distinct forms of several ithorians and sullustans.
He stepped out of his ship, and even though his status as Count afforded him the luxury of having a space on the platform cleared specifically for his arrival, Dooku still found himself inundated with an amount of noise that was almost overwhelming to the senses. All around him the din and hiss of machinery could be heard, from the whirring of industrial loader droids to the gentle roar of engines of ships either leaving or arriving, coupled with the chatter of conversation in a dozen different languages, all combined to remind Dooku of his days on Coruscant.
There were three men waiting to greet him, two humans and a twi’lek, all dressed in the dark blue flak suits affiliating them with the docking authority. All had hefty looking blasters holstered at their waists.
“My lord,” one of the men said, a lad who could not be older than twenty standard years, dipping his head and placing a hand to his sternum. His ident tag named him Corman, and though his decorum was professional, he was clearly nervous in the presence of the Count. “I am pleased that you are here. I can only hope that you will forgive any disturbance that was made to contact you.”
“No disturbance was made,” Dooku said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You were right to summon me here.” Corman dipped his head ahead again in thanks at the mild praise, and Dooku idly wondered if the lad did that for everyone of authority above him. “Now then, where is this ship?” Dooku pressed, wanting to get this over with.
“If you’ll follow us my lord, the Jedi ship is this way.”
Followed by around half a dozen guards, Dooku let himself be led near the edge of the platform. He could have made the journey by himself, as it was not like the extra muscle that surrounded him offered any more protection than he needed. In all likelihood he was the one being on the entire planet who needed it the least. He decided not to dismiss them however, feeling it best to keep up appearances. Behind him he noticed a small crowd begin to gather, apparently interested in seeing what had occurred to convince the Count of Serenno of all people to grace them with his presence.
Soon enough the ship came within sight, and Dooku found the hologram had done little to convey how run down the craft truly was. Along its surface, the durasteel plating was scuffed and marred, and even despite Dooku’s disinterest in all things mechanical, he could still recognize the telltale signs of ion scoring, particularly along the ships aft section. It had been shot at and, from the amount of repair work he could discern, that was apparently a common occurrence for the pilot.
The pilot in question, an aging chagrian with mottled gray skin and one of his ivory horns snapped off, could be seen standing a little way away from the ship, having a heated discussion with two members of the docking authority, appointed to keep him busy while they waited for Dooku to arrive. The exact wording of their debate was lost in the noise of the port, but it was obvious that neither party was particularly happy with the other.
Dooku spared a glance at Corman, who responded with a nod of his head. Dooku sighed, straightened his cloak, and began to stride forward.
“Gentleman,” Dooku called once he felt he could be heard. At once the argument ceased as all three turned to look at him, the guards straightened and dipped their heads in contrition, the chagrian looking at Dooku with something akin to annoyance, a sentiment Dooku reciprocated, but did not allow to be shown through his own demeanor. “What appears to be the problem?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” the chagrian growled, shooting a venomous glare at the officers. “The problem is that I’m being unlawfully held against my will!”
“And why is that, might I ask?” Dooku said, his tone level.
The chagrian started to step forward, thrusting a clawed finger at Dooku, until the click of blasters being drawn out of their holsters convinced him of how unwise such an action might be, and he made a visible effort to keep his irritation from spilling over. As the chagrian lowered his hand, and Dooku’s attention was drawn to the hastily applied bandages wrapped around the wrist and palm, stained with fresh blood from a seeping wound that wasn’t quite covered.
“I don’t know what your goons told you, but I- “
“Are you certain of that?” Dooku interrupted, eyebrow raised. “Because from what I understand, mister. . .?”
“Gors’tan,” the chagrian muttered after a moment of hesitation, discontent plain on both his face and through the Force.
Dooku dipped his head. “Thank you. Now as I was saying, from what I understand, mister Gors’tan, the reason you have been so unlawfully detained, as you yourself have put, is due to the fact that you seem to be flying a ship that bears a peculiar set of ident codes.” Dooku folded his hands before him, affecting curiosity. “Now, I’m certain it must be a mistake, but do you, by any chance, know what they might be referring to?”
Gors’stan’s eyes squinted in apparent confusion, before widening ever so slightly. The movement was subtle enough that most would have missed it. Dooku did not, however. “I’m uh, not sure what you mean, my lord,” Gors’tan began, his tone suddenly becoming much more pleasant. “This is kind of an old ship, as you can tell. More of an heirloom really, and between everything I haven’t exactly had the time to update the transponder.”
“Clearly,” Dooku said, cutting Gors’tan off before the chagrian could ramble on to another excuse, and wondered exactly how he was going to handle this.
The chagrian was no Jedi, that much was obvious to Dooku as soon as he laid eyes upon the pretender. The ident codes were clearly either forged or stolen off an official Jedi ship. It was not a common practice, even among the more duplicitous circles of the galactic underworld, as such methods tended to attract more trouble than they dissuaded. For all their faults, the Jedi did not take kindly to the discovery of such things. For some brave or foolhardy cutthroats however, depending on the nature of their business, it was worth the risk. This in turn led Dooku to wonder what Gors’tan was up to that running a ship with Jedi ident codes made it worth that risk.
A small voice in Dooku made him wonder if it was even worth his attention at all at this point. He had come to ascertain the veracity of a Jedi on Serenno, and now that the truth was uncovered, what else was there for him to do? It would be the easy thing to just let Gors’tan be on his way and let the Jedi deal with their own mess.
Something stayed him, however.
Between the cavalcade of thoughts and curiosity that radiated from the crowds milling about the platform, the docking authority’s passive vigilance, and Gors’tan’s irritation and worry, there was something else. A small thing, barely noticeable amidst the din, like the buzzing of an insect around his ear, incessantly drawing his attention somewhere.
Dooku’s eyes fixed upon the freighter, barely aware of Gors’tan speaking as he took a step towards the craft.
“Has anyone inspected the ship?” he asked, and it took a moment for Corman to realize the question was directed at him.
“Uh, no, not as of yet my lord,” Corman answered uncertainly. “We felt it would be best to wait for your decision.”
Dooku’s expression hardened, and all around he felt the guards shift uncomfortably at his apparent displeasure. He began walking toward the ship, heading for the open loading ramp.
“W-wait! Hold on!” Gors’tan spluttered behind him. “You can’t just- “
“Hold him,” Dooku commanded over his shoulder, not breaking his stride as the sound of shuffling boots and cries of outrage echoed behind him.
Dooku stepped up the loading ramp, looking around at the interior of the ship with a critical eye. The space was mostly empty save for a few crates and cases strewn haphazardly about. None of them had any markings to indicate what their contents were, hinting at the possibility of Gors’tan being an illicit smuggler of some sort. It would not surprise Dooku in the slightest if he were to find various grades of glitteryl inside them. Aside from that, the only thing that was obvious was the ladder leading up to the cockpit. Dooku ventured further inside, his steps echoing off the hard durasteel walls.
Going by appearance alone, there was nothing here that stood apart from the ordinary, nothing that indicated that Gors’tan was little more than a law breaker who happened to pick the wrong planet to stop at. But Dooku knew that that there was something else here, something out of sight and hidden away.
Dooku closed his eyes, reached out.
No, not just hidden away. Hiding.
A presence, small and frail.
It felt him just as much as he felt it, and it recoiled away, trying to make itself smaller, trying to avoid his notice.
Dooku already had all he needed to pinpoint where it was.
With a wave of his arm the cluster of crates near the back of the ship were brushed aside, as if by the hand of an invisible giant, and even to the naked eye he could clearly discern where a portion of the rectangular floor paneling had been tampered with, a slight discoloring indicating it had been removed and replaced numerous times. The panel levitated upward with a light screech of grinding metal, before being flung aside.
Dooku peered into the gloomy interior of the hidden compartment, his eyes unable to quite penetrate the darkness. But there was something in there. The presence again tried to recoil, but there was nowhere for it to go, trapped as it was.
He hesitated, uncertain. Felt the weight of his lightsaber on his hip, contemplated it use. He decided against it, inexplicably feeling as though it would be unwise as he looked around for something else to use as a light source. He spied a set of lumen rods set next to a maintenance outlet and called one to his hand. Once activated, he carefully held it before him, its soft glow illuminating the compartment.
Dooku felt his innards twist at what he saw.
A girl, no older than three or four standard years of age, sat huddled as far as she could away from him in the far corner of the compartment. She had sunset orange skin, and blotchy white markings on her face. Framing her face on either side were short, tendril-like growths lined with faded blue stripes, and the beginnings of stubby horns protruded atop her head.
A togruta, Dooku realized.
The girl stared at him, her large blue eyes boring into him with the intensity of a solar flare, and it became immediately clear to Dooku that she had been crying.
Dooku sat there for a long moment, processing what he was looking at, and again he felt something twist within his being at realizing what exactly was going here. It was only when a soft whimper reached his ears, dragging him out of his freefall into rage that Dooku realized he had been shaking, and immediately relaxed the scowl that had crossed his face.
“Do not worry,” he said, trying keep his voice as soft as he could, the girl not taking her eyes away from him even as she began to convulse with a fresh wave of tears.
A slaver. Gors’tan was a slaver, and not a typical one either, Dooku concluded as the pieces began to fit together. No, his quarry was Force sensitive children. Of their own accord, memories of his time in the Jedi temple, of this very topic being discussed, came to him. Memories of his own burning rage at being unable to do more to stop it, of the Order’s inability to stop it.
He quashed it down. Those were not important right now. Slowly and gently, and unsure if he was doing the right thing, Dooku lowered himself into the compartment, setting the lumen rod aside. The girl continued to stare at him, her eyes occasionally darting to the opening, searching for an opportunity to escape.
“Do not worry,” Dooku said again, the softness of his voice alien to him. It had been so long since he had been forced to speak this way. It only occurred to him after he had spoken the possibility the girl may not even understand him. Slowly he reached out a hand. The girl recoiled, eyes going wide with fright, pressing herself back as far as she could against the wall. She grimaced at him, displaying a set of small but sharp looking fangs, stained slightly red. Briefly, Dooku thinks he spots a small chunk of grayish meat between her teeth.
Something within Dooku had broken then. Near as he could discern from the light of the lumen rod, the girl had not been obviously injured or abused, but there was clearly something going on that he was not aware of that caused her to mistrust him, aside from him being a stranger she had never met before. Dooku retracted the hand, letting it rest on his thigh.
An image of Qui-Gon Jinn, young and just recently accepted as his padawan, crosses his mind.
Dooku blinks, understanding dawning on him as he realizes how to proceed. He closes his eyes, inhales, and exhales, pushing away all feelings of anger and hatred and vengeance. They are not the tools he needs right now. The sensations, having been a part of him for so long, left reluctantly, like a rabid animal being forced into its cage, only to be released when it was needed. It was difficult, but he accomplished the task, and in their place, he let others in, emotions and feelings that were practically anathema to what came before them. Compassion, sympathy, pity.
He let them suffuse him, the sensation awkward like a key being forced to fit into a lock not made for it, but he manages all the same.
He then lets the feeling expand outward from him, and he reaches.
He feels the girls’ presence, feels her react to the projected emotions, feels her fear, her terror and confusion. Then slowly, ever so slowly, she relaxes, recognizing his intent. The grimace fades, and the shuddering in her limbs begins to quell.
Only when he feels the light of understanding spark within does Dooku offer his hand again.
The girl ignores it entirely as she stumbles over, throwing her little arms around him as she begins to cry, her choked sobs muffled by his cloak, babbling something in a language he does not know. Dooku flinches, then gently lays his hands across her back. Wrapping his cloak about her small form, Dooku carries her out of the ship.
Outside the storm finally broke, and a light rainfall had begun. When Dooku emerges from the ship he is aware that a score of eyes is upon him and his new companion. The crowd had grown considerably in the short amount of time Dooku had been absent, and he could pick up the faint whisperings of hushed conversation. He sees Corman waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp. The lad looks up at Dooku in concern, a question on his lips when he spots the girl held in his arms, her face buried into his shoulder and her fists tightly gripping his tunic.
Corman stutters for a moment, then finally seems to find his words. “My. . . my lord, what is- “
“Where is Gors’tan?”
The question comes out as a deep, threatening growl, and Corman and several others around him visibly flinch at the unrestrained venom in Dooku’s voice. Corman points to his left, And Dooku settles his withering gaze on the chagrian, where he is currently being held by two armed men, each of his arms restrained in their grip. At some point Gors’tan had sustained a noticeable welt above his left eye, and he cast a heated look at one of the officers, presumably the one who gave him the wound.
The chagrian stills when he notices that Dooku had reemerged, and pales when he sees what he was carrying, his gray skin turning a shade of lavender.
“Release him.”
The officers look to Dooku in apparent surprise. “My lord,” one began. “Are you sure that-“
“I said, release him,” Dooku repeats, keeping his tone level. Even then the implied threat was plain for all to hear, and the officers complied.
As soon as their hold on him slackened Gors’tan wrenched his arms away, palming at the welt with a pained grimace. He looked almost ready to turn on them before he seemingly remembered where he was, and fixed his sights back on Dooku, eyes darting between the Count and his ship, gauging the distance he would have to run.
“N-now listen here sir. I’m sure there is way we can come to an- “
Gors’tan’s words die in his throat. He looks around, confused. His confusion turns to panic, and he begins to grab at his neck frantically, nothing but choking gasps escaping his mouth. The mutterings of the crowd change then, going from curious to alarmed as they watch. Then Gors’tan is lifted from the ground, his boots unable to find purchase on the floor. The chagrian begins to writhe and convulse violently. His limbs are forced to spread wide, and the creak of bone bending can be heard.
Someone in the crowd screams.
With a sickening crunch, Gors’tans body twists and contorts in on itself, his bones splintered, and his flesh reduced to a sagging purple mush. The corpse falls to the floor in a crumpled heap, barely recognizable as something that had once been living.
Dooku breathes, letting the rage, the vile loathing, recede after being loosed from its cage.
There is the sound of screaming about him, someone shouting frantically. The crowd is in a panic, having just witnessed a death on par with the brutality of rapid decompression.
Someone is speaking to Dooku, quickly and with barely restrained alarm. He does not hear it. He feels a tiny fist clench at his tunic, and his gaze is drawn to the togruta girl still in his arms. Her face is no longer buried in his shoulder. Her eyes are fixed forward. With a jolt, Dooku realizes that she is looking at the mangled and pulped remains of her kidnapper. She had watched him die, her face a blank mask. Dooku turns away, cutting off her view of the grisly scene as though doing so would somehow undo the damage.
Foolish.
“Corman,” he calls, cutting off the lads’ line of questions. Corman quiets down, eyes flicking between Dooku and the body. Several of the officers with him are similarly perturbed, some having drawn their weapons and scanning their surroundings, as though an invisible monster lurked about.
“Y-yes, my lord?”
“Have both Gors’tan and his ship destroyed. I want nothing to remain of either of them. Do I make myself clear?”
Corman swallowed hard, unable to meet the Counts’ eyes. There is a question on his lips, begging to be released, to ask what just happened and what it means. Corman’s discipline and loyalty to his lord take control however, and he gives a shaky nod. “Yes, m-my lord. I-it will be done as you have ordered.”
Without another word, Count Dooku begins to make his way back to his personal transport, leaving the chaos and turmoil of his deed behind him. The light rainfall becomes a downpour, and a peal of thunder can be heard as the ship ascends into the air.