Drabbles: Ewok & Typewriter
Rating: PG
Thrawn McEwok


A scarred hand lashes across her face like a whip, knocking her back down to the deck. She tries to rise, but rough fingers knot around the torn lapels of her jumpsuit, hauling her up.

She's small, and he hoists her easily off the ground, leering close in to her face.

"Interrogation starts now," he growls. "And your friends killed some of mine, so don't expect me to be nice."

She flails and screams, kicking her bare feet at his knees.

He just laughs in her face, and spits on her.

"Your name!"

Worse than helpless, she starts to cry.


He kicks her down the freighter's ramp, tumbling her out into the blinding light. She tenses, crouching in the dust, feeling the kiss of sunshine on her skin.

Then he's standing over her again, as tall and dark as a Sith Lord, the chill dusk of his shadow thrown casually round her shoulders.

She looks up, meets his gaze.

She feels laughter bubble in her throat like bile.

They've been torturing her former captors all morning, and she's been enjoying their radiant agony, savouring it with vindictive pleasure.

She smiles experimentally, wondering how to say thank-you to a Yuuzhan Vong.


She paces the three steps across her prison, fingering the alien collar locked around her throat.

Sharp-tipped ribs touch gently below her chin. Pain presses dully into the nape of her neck. A heavy tail hangs against her spine. Occasionally, it twitches, tickling her soft skin like an unwelcome friend.

Some vague part of her tries to remember; but she can't. Not any more.


She turns, and presses her splayed fingers into the taut, transparent membrane, staring out at the alien laboratory.

She gazes at the shaping knives, acid-wiped and beautifully clean.

The sharp blankness is all she understands.


Ankles spread painfully wide, bound to the deck in heavy mounds of blorash jelly. Forearms pinned together in the gooey grip of a third blob of the stuff between her jacked-out thighs. Spine curved forward, head bowed low, fingers free to knot and fret.

A dance of bright blonde curls frames her field of vision. Alema, Tenel Ka, left and right. Small scars in the deck, small scratches on her skin.

The soles of her bare feet almost touch the wall, and her back is turned to the centre of the dungeon hold.

That's where they're torturing Anakin right now.


There's good hunting on Dagobah. Lowbacca and Tesar are good companions for a world like this for a girl like her.

It's not really a punishment.

She's sitting on the damp shoulder of a boulder now. A dark, unruly lattice of knob-jointed branches hangs above the sweating, stinking swamp.

She's staring at the shell of the swamp-spider she's caught and broken for her morning meal.

She stares - and feels a sudden stab of hurt, right in her eyes.

Fresh tears star her vision, sharp and bright.

But she blinks them rapidly away, and gets on with making her breakfast.

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