This story was written for the sole purpose of entertainment. No copyright infringement or harm is intended. No claim or profit is expected or received. This story is based on characters and situations created by Michael A. Stackpole and that belong to Lucasfilm. Do not repost anywhere without the permission of the author!
He woke up in a pitch-black room, or so he thought. For all the pain he felt, his eyes might have been gouged out. There was a keening thumping in his ears and he was wearing strange clothing. A tight helmet was on his head, with a strong wire component around it, and a rubbery gag-like object placed firmly in his mouth. Some sort of tight synthethic fabric made up the clothing on his body, but it seemed contorted and padded, altering his shape and inhibiting his movements, apparently designed to enhance the torture. He vaguely recalled being repeatedly hunted, thrown, and beaten, shrill whistling and shrieking yells piercing his skull all the while. He also recalled the sensation of running, and the painful attacks as they caught him, beat him and dragged him down onto the ground. His clothes were torn and bloody, matted with his blood and dirt.
He remembered at last that his name was Corran. He was a prisoner. He had been interrogated and tortured, and would be again.
Every muscle and bone and joint in his body cried out in agony, and his knees especially were sore. For some reason, he was obsessed with carrying a sort of container, not letting his tormentors have it. He seemed to recall that if he lost it, he would not be chosen for special assignment. Despite this, he remembered trying to lose the container, so they would stop making him run, for he knew there was no escape to run to.
He heard a door open, and he looked toward it. He saw light and was relieved that he wasn't blind, but his heart stopped as he recognized the silhouette in the doorway, backlit from the corridor.
It was her, and he knew he was lost. Ysanne Isard had come personally for him. Though his mind and memory were addled, Corran knew it wasn't the first time, and this time might break him. He tried to look away, but she grabbed the front of his braced helmet, and filled his vision. He tried to look away from the short, pleated skirt, the tight sweater emblazoned with the Imperial crest, her hair pulled in pigtails, pompoms at the ready...
"Come, my darling wide-out. I shall cheer for you as I watch you play, and then I will 'play' with you..."
Corran prayed that he would pass out before she "played" her game with him again.
Copyright 2000 by Diana DeRiggs.
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