Anarchy is the only slight glimmer of hope.

~Mick Jagger

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I'd nearly forgotten the feeling of Force-trance— a chance not to retreat but to recover. Anything that was mistaken could be rectified, and anything that was missed could be found anew. Not a chance to retreat, mind you— this was respite and contemplation.

Only in this case, that fact was nearly forgotten when my eyes opened.

Tatooine. The planet of lazy, golden sand filled with heat and cruelty. Housing a notorious crime lord as cruel as he was vast— the Hutt and Planet go hand in hand. Even in space, I would instead prefer falling through ten levels of a building to staring at either harsh suns or a harsher slug.

And we must go down there and meet him. Once more, wishing I could go back into Force hibernation.

"Don't worry," Obi-Wan opened communications with me softly, "I'm sure Jabba's in a good mood."

I sighed, "No mood of this Hutt brings me comfort, Master."

Who doesn't know the reputation of Jabba the Hutt? Jabba the Cutthroat. Jabba the Gangster. Jabba the Torturer. But in this case, Jabba the desperate-father-crying-for-help-but-I'm probably-threatening-death-to-conceal-my weakness-because-I'm-a-Hutt. I mustn't bring that last one up if I am to remain Zakriahs Asher.

Master's hyperspace ring detached from his starfighter, and I followed suit. Guiding our ships to the planet, our destination coming into view. The small palace slowly became an immense, cylindrical building with curved rotundas and colors that matched its terrain.

Almost as soon as we landed, the steel doors of the palace scraped upward to reveal our escorts: a copper protocol droid, two Niktos, and a Weequay slowly walking toward us. My Master and I quickly straightened our Jedi robes. Well, he did it quickly, at any rate. I had to press mine some more from some wrinkles.

"Jabba is expecting you." The droid told us with a high, flat voice.

"Best not to keep him waiting," Obi-Wan said wryly. The Weequay walked behind us while the Niktos flanked our sides. My brow rose when the Weequay made his best impression of a rancor, but otherwise, I said nothing.

The door shut behind us, and the droid led us into a dark room with a maculate feeling flowing with every step we took. The only light came from those brutal twin suns through the windows, making faint rays of light into the compound.

On our walk, we made our way to a large chamber filled with colorful characters. Most of the Nitkos and Weequays were armed with blasters and two green Gamorrans wielding large axes. Rodians and a few humans watched us with weary eyes, and of course, it wouldn't be a Hutt's den if entertainment didn't consist of scantily clad Twi'leks and... a Zeltron. Only one? Then again, there's only one Rodian dancer and one Askajian. But is it possible... No, it's probably nothing. And there, on a dais, sat the bulbous, wrinkled slug that was Jabba the Hutt. His large, glassy orange eyes landed on us with a profoundly sick look. In truth, this was his natural eye color, and behind them was a deep cunning that analyzed us.

What does the crime lord discern from me? Am I unremarkable? Is Obi-Wan the actual threat? Are we so small to the high and immobile Jabba? I sensed a tiny chide through the Force and acknowledged Obi-Wan's wish. We were negotiators first and fighters second.

We bowed, as was expected of Jedi, and Obi-Wan's voice pierced the dark room.

"Mighty Jabba," He said keenly, "we have come personally with news about your son: we know where he is. As we speak, one of our most powerful Jedi is rescuing him."

Jabba rumbled what I think was a long sigh, but I had no doubt my Master's flawless Huttese took him aback. Even the interpreter droid hid its surprise better— useless thing. Nevertheless, he hid that surprise by drawing a rigid posture and a calm yet rough voice.

"I want my son Rotta returned to me immediately, Jedi Kenobi." He said, skipping pretenses. From what I understood of Hutts, they loved to dance around their meaning— taking as long as possible, likely gauging information from business partners. It's probably the closest they get to dancing.

But in all seriousness, for the Hutt to stab this point so directly tells me much of his current mindset. Nothing else matters except his son.

"And know this," He continued, "if the Republic desires my space lanes, you'll bring me the scum who stole my punky-muffin."

"Punky?" Obi-Wan chuckled, then corrected himself, "Dead or alive, Mighty Jabba?" Thankfully, Jabba didn't acknowledge that first part.

"Whichever comes first." said Jabba, "Although, try to bring him alive."

I want a muffin, was my first thought. Oh, I don't pity the kidnapper, was my second.

"But," said Jabba, "there's something you must keep in mind. Before you arrived, I sent my top bounty hunters to find my son."

Something heavy fell in front of Jabba's dais with a slight squish. When my eyes lay on it, I was baffled. It was a body of a person, but it was... Rodian fingers on a Nikto's body? No, wait, that's a Gran's arm. But...the face is all wrong; too many eyes for a Nikto, and a Gran doesn't have a Rodian's mouth. And the scars...

They're stitches: stitches and something else by the neck. The neck had a deep charring, yet the head didn't lull off somehow. I didn't have to cover my nose at that near-putrid smell; my hood obscured my growing confusion. The skin— it was as if someone took colored patches of flimsiplast and pasted them everywhere: smooth orange, green scales, and a reddish Nitko's— are those horns? The smell... Those stitches...

Oh, I'm looking at three aliens amalgamated into one corpse.

I tried to quiet the shuddering breath escaping from me. A bile...rose to my throat, and I had to hold it back. Are— are these...tears?

"I hired four of them, and this is all that is what befell three of them." Jabba's words echoed as if I were suddenly searching for a way out of a cavern.

"...And the fourth hunter?" I heard Obi-Wan say, and this time, Jabba's words sounded closer than ever before.

"A reprogrammed assassin droid that brought it— or rather, them here."

Dimly, Jabba's words struck a chord with me. And I could imagine the scene as though I were here: those marks on its... their wrists. The droid did not carry them, and this... desecration was a message from those responsible.

Obi-Wan sent another pulse through the Force, and with an effort, I willed myself to peace. Or at least, as close to peace as Jabba's Palace will allow.

"If you don't find my son," Jabba said. I swear, he side-eyed me. "Then Count Dooku and his droid army will." He gestured for the body to be lifted away.

"I understand, Mighty Jabba." said Obi-Wan.

"I'm giving you one planetary rotation to do this." Jabba growled, "A Tatooine rotation, that is."

Obi-Wan bowed, "Now, in the meantime, may we discuss terms?"

I sensed Obi-Wan's concern before Jabba set his standards; perhaps I'll be reprimanded for ignoring them later. This Hutt flourished for weakness in his subjects, and I could not give him such a thing. Thankful as I was for my unease being noticed by Obi-Wan, I held myself high. If I could witness that... corpse while controlling my shaking knees and still understand every word of Huttese being spoken, I could do this. I will withstand a few hours of negotiations if I must.

Not that I want to mind you.

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Obi-Wan and I stared at the blue hologram of Anakin, hooded, holding an arm overhead. Already on his way to combat. Obi-Wan requested the news be delivered to our best immediately, to which Jabba wholeheartedly agreed. Higher stakes equal faster results, supposedly.

"One day?" Anakin finally said.

"One day." Obi-Wan confirmed.

"Fine, then." Anakin said, "I'm relying on you to sweet talk Jabba. Your job's harder than ours."

"Don't be so presumptuous, Anakin." Obi-Wan chided, "We don't know who abducted his son, and if I'm honest, I'm... uneasy, to say the least."

There was a pause in Anakin's response. "Really?"

"When Jabba sent his top bounty hunters for the job, they were returned to him... It would have been one thing to kill them, and it's another to send them back to Jabba dead. But... Three of the hunters were— well, Anakin, combined."

"...Combined, Master?"

"Surgically."

Silence returned as the words clicked into place. I saw it in Obi-Wan's eyes. This hit him in his core. I heard his voice. His apprehension leaks into his words as he struggles to speak his thoughts. Our faces all matched, though I couldn't see Padawan Tano. Strangely, it was this shared dread that helped me finally assert myself.

"Master Skywalker," I said, my throat dry. "you're dealing with a monster—a sadistic monster with a precise mind and the confidence to meet you head-on..." I grimaced, "And what's worse is that they're creative." My words had the desired effect after Anakin spoke at last.

"He wants to meet me head-on?" He glared, "Then that's exactly what he'll get."

Obi-Wan seemed to find his General's voice.

"Zakriahs and I will rendezvous with you once negotiations are finished." He nodded, "And please, be careful, Anakin." He added as an afterthought.

"Don't worry, Master." Anakin attempted a smirk, "We're not an ordinary extraction team."

The hologram shut off before Obi-Wan could rebuke that. Though he was amused, for a moment, neither of us spoke. When Obi-Wan put a hand on my shoulder, he said something unexpected.

"Tell me about Whorm Loathsom."

I blinked, "Wha— I'm sorry?"

"How much information did you get from him?"

"Well... he lost."

"Yes, but what did you observe? Obviously, you saw things that the General was trying to hide."

I sighed, "And this aggravated him and ended our 'negotiations,' as they're called."

"Yes," He nodded, "but your words, swamp-faring, I believe you said."

"Well, even when the droids brought me to you, I saw that his stride was faster than a leisurely Kerkoidan. You'd normally see that speed from a sailor, but Kerkoidia is mostly civilization beating down swamp." My finger found my lip, "Of course, you'd usually see that one gulp of liquid from someone who has little time to relish smooth tea. Those old habits are hard to kick out, even after you fill your head with a rigid dignity."

"And even though he was confident in his victory," Obi-Wan said, "his stance was always guarded."

My nod was slow. "There's a little more to it than that." I looked at him, "But thank you, Master. I knew what you were doing."

"And thank you, Zakriahs," Obi-Wan smiled, "I think you always have something well to say, but there's a time and a place. You understand that now." It was only partially a question.

"Yes, control illudes me today," As if that was the permission I needed, I hunched over, exhaling the fear and disgust that had built up in the short time I was here. It was all so... sickening. Those poor bounty hunters and the barbarity they never expected... How long did they...

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Obi-Wan patted my back as if expecting bile any second now, but it never came. Perhaps a minute had passed of me staring at the concert floor. Eyes wide and close to heaving before recovering. I don't remember. With a thankful nod to my Master, the words flowed out— words I should have said sooner.

"...There is no emotion," My hands relaxed.

"There is peace." Obi-Wan straightened the robe on my shoulders, "There is no ignorance."

"There is knowledge." My hand touched my hair. It was just as I wanted it.

"There is no passion." Obi-Wan stepped back.

"There is serenity."

"There is no chaos."

"There is harmony."

"...There is no death."

My mind went to... But they weren't suffering anymore. They passed on, and now...

"There," I breathed and faced Obi-Wan, "is only the Force."

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Dawn on Tatooine was a kindness compared to a day. It was only an hour or two of negotiations, yet it felt like weeks.

Anakin was right: our job was more complicated.

Stepping into our delta starfighters as the twin suns rose in the distance, my eyes held an edge as our escorts glared from the entrance and all sides. A few Jawas scattered around our ships, chattering in their abnormal language; their glowing eyes hungrily staring at our vessels. My astromech R4 warbled something that Obi-Wan's R4 astromech seemed to agree on.

"I know, R4." He said, "I also wish to leave."

"Expeditiously," I muttered, "At least the sky is perfectly clear— picturesque blue.."

Carefully maneuvering my starfighter, the tiny panel flashed a series of words.

"Well," I frowned, "of course it matters. It could be a corrosive rust or an acid green with smelting rains to complement it. It's essential to think about these things, R4— what are your last numbers again?" The words flashed, "J11. R4-J11, it's essential we think about these things so that in the future, we aren't too surprised when we find these worlds. Whether they're crimson skies, seas of sound, or land of fire..."

A muffled Corscanti accent chuckled. "So certain that these worlds exist."

"I'd like to believe," My eyes shut languidly, "in all the possibilities." The wonderful unknown tames the terrifying unknown, as well.

And speaking of which, "To Teth now, yes?"

"Indeed," Obi-Wan said. Slowly, the clear blue morphed into a deeper, darker hue, and stars could be seen all around. Perfectly foreboding, I think. Soon enough, we reached our hyperspace rings, and the humming of hyperspace powering up filled my ears—no chance to back out as my view transformed again. Softly staring into the swirling kaleidoscope of hyperspace was tempting, but for fear of hyper-rapture(a rumor, but can't be too careful), Force trance took me.

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A hooded man grinned as the Jedi flew into space; time was of the essence, and slaughter must be restrained for the right moment. He found Jabba had allowed his entourage to return and startled expressions all around him. The cloaked man sauntered— almost gliding— before Jabba.

The man's bow was filled with pleased and eager deference. And he spoke for all to hear before Jabba could decide whether this was a show of respect or blatant mockery.

"O, mighty Jabba the Hutt, I bring urgent news. Your son was taken to Teth." The man hesitated, "This will anger you, but I must say it— the Jedi orchestrated this abduction."

The enraptured crowd gasped in collective astonishment. Of course, the flourish in this man's voice filled Jabba with doubt. Of course, the other side would come to him and say, 'It wasn't us. They did it!' but Jabba decided to play this game and see where it led him.

"How have you obtained this information?" Jabba asked, and the man replied before the droid translated.

"The Separatists have their own sets of eyes stalking our prey." He said, "And before you ask: your son is alive."

Jabba scowled a Hutt's scowl, "Why should I believe you? You show up almost immediately after the Jedi. I know Dooku wants the same thing from me; you'll say anything to get it. So, convince me!"

There was also the fact that this sleemo might have just called his punky-muffin prey— that doesn't do him any favors. Though, Jabba couldn't quite tell who or what he was dealing with. The man's face wouldn't reveal even a hint of skin tone, despite the sunlight ushering into the room. Jabba felt that this was a human or humanoid— his outstretched hands to show kindness had a human color, yet the Hutt couldn't tell if they were too long for a human.

The man placed his fingertips together and let the surprisingly loud cracking of his fingers resound in the chamber. And then, slowly and tentatively, his hood fell away. Jabba finally got a good look at him: he looked human enough if a hint pale. The darkest brown eyes stared into Jabba's own with guileless complaisance, shifting two strands of long, crimson hair out of his face. Meanwhile, his face was sharp and refined; Jabba had seen faces such as these used to great advantage in winning supporters. In other words, Jabba knew the female humanoids found him handsome.

"Forgive me, Lord Jabba," He said softly, "It's just this haste we're making and your son's life on the line... You're right, however, Count Dooku sent me to you." He bowed again, "My name is Diomeni, and I'm working to untangle a web of lies designed with you in the center. And I have evidence."

Jabba knew that by waiting in silence, 'Diomeni' would break. This tactic always works and saves him the trouble of strapping a thermal detonator over him. Eventually, Diomeni turned away, a visible breath escaping him.

"We've acquired footage from a security holocam showing the Jedi with your son... Lord Jabba, the Jedi are planning to kill you."

"Kill me?" Jabba asked calmly over the outrage of his denizens.

This was something Jabba hadn't anticipated, much less imagined. No Hutt could say they liked the lightsaber wielders of the Republic, yet Jabba was sure the Jedi would be indifferent to them. The defenders of peace(and Jabba used that term lightly) plotting to assassinate him? It didn't seem unreal; Jabba had heard some of what they'd been doing in this war, and Jabba would be remiss to ignore Anakin Skywalker as the Republic's poster boy.

"Show me!" Jabba demanded.

"Of course," said Diomeni, "One of our best agents is risking everything to save your son. A few minutes, mighty Jabba, is all you'll suffer."

Jabba growled in frustration. Of course, it wouldn't be this simple! But, he'll put up with it—this is what Jabba needed again: control over the situation. No eyes would see all the hope and relief and desperation from this latest development; he was the Hutt Kajidic whose very name strikes fear across Tatooine and beyond. As far as his menagerie of dancers or musicians was concerned, those slit pupils promised pain.

"Then I'll wait. Minutes."

Diomeni, seemingly fazed by the Hutt's scathing tone, bowed once more. With that, Jabba's patrons, minus the guards, scattered to their rooms, fearing the Hutt would unleash his anger on them. Diomeni was given a chance to wander to his heart's content.

He was not wandering, however. Diomeni followed the trail someone had left for him, the alluring smell that would lead him to his most recent prize. Those eyes, which were guileless, at first, were now predatory and prowling, yet his chin was upturned in a fashion fitting of a noble or a prince. Finally, he lay in front of a door. With a wave of his fingers, he willed it open. He had been most excited for these two: his tantalizing Carmine and their new, bountiful Dia.

Carmine's eyes, alight with a fire that matched her skin and short hair, had stared at the door in anticipation— knowing he was coming. He reached for that fire and sent a wave of approval at her golden outfit couldn't hide her slim waist, taut belly, or her long, supple legs. Once you get past the short face, button nose, and ample breasts covered by, what were essentially, golden nets held by slinky strings...

Well, that would be telling.

Dia, on the other hand, was a fragile thing. Her light green eyes were more wideset than Carmine's, and her mousy face left little to be desired. She was, in his eyes, a lost lamb searching for the promises made to her. He sensed fear within this Twi'lek, but it was meager to her eyes. Perfectly possessed with which set him in motion. Better yet, a distant light was burning in Dia's eyes, and thanks to Carmine, it now burned brighter.

Better still, her skintight outfit did wonders for his imagination.

Diomeni turned and saw a ragged man holding a bottle of Corellian wine. Not his first choice, but it would do. The door shut, and a sound escaped his throat, almost like a purr. It would be a while before Ventress sent them the doctored footage of Anakin Skywalker hurting and hating the Huttlett. He had other matters to attend to.

"M-... My Lord," Dia bowed a Twi'lek's bow. That is to say subservient and meek. He exchanged glances with Carmine who offered a lopsided shrug. He held a patient hand up for her and returned his gaze to Dia.

"Dia Ziveri," He drew out her name, took her hand, and kissed it with class and panache, "a pleasure to meet you at last."

Whatever Dia had to say, died in her flustered throat. Not that she minded, it meant he would speak again. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the air in this room felt hazy and... sweet somehow. Suddenly, Diomeni's fingers moved her eyes directly into the man's deep brown eyes.

"You," he said, "have become a blessing in these chaotic times. I know the best way to thank you..." he traced his finger on her lekku, slowly sending shivers all over, "but I must see your heart." She fluttered her eyelids with an unexpected difficulty, "What do you hate most about this palace, Dia Ziveri?"

Her words came out almost slurring. "Hate?"

"Surely you have felt like an object under that disgusting heap of slime."

A torrent of repressed anger, sadness, and disgust began slipping through the walls Dia had placed within her, and before she knew it, her passionate words flowed out."

"I have, my Lord." She rasped, "And— and the guards are no better. Jabba would permit the guards to act like slobbering braggarts. I hated them all, and I never felt safe! The mark of my chain," She gestured to her neck, "is only now disappearing. How I wish I could go over to Jabba and... And..." And suddenly, that torrent overflowed in tears. Diomeni took her shaking hands and studied them: bruised and slightly discolored. He could see how deep her pain traveled.

"Dia Ziveri," He wiped the tear, "don't call it by its name." At her confusion, he continued in a warm tone, "It's only me. There's no need for that fat, vile waste of space to be acknowledged with respect. Do you believe me when I say I can walk in there and send that slug to the Sarlacc where it belongs?"

While Dia was astounded at how casually he said this, she only nodded dumbly.

"You are as wise as you are beautiful. But this beauty attracts such dangers; this would force you to become... sensitive." He guided her hand to one of his crimson locks on the right side of his face, "If our hearts are to become one, I must... beg that you do something for me... What do you love, Dia?"

"She really loves dancing!"

Dia jumped at the sound, forgetting that Carmine was sitting at a nearby table. Dia became embarrassed once her words registered, but Carmine only gave her a mischievous wave.

Diomeni chuckled, "Will you dance?"

"Yes, my Lord." She said without thinking. Reluctantly, she broke away from his hold and composed herself. As the fever that built within her faded, she couldn't help but think how typical this was, dancing for approval. Some things don't change.

She performed the dance everyone loved: elegant, graceful, and practiced beyond perfection. It was routine for her at this point, and he would no doubt take her after this.

"Stop!"

She flinched in the middle of her twirl. The Twi'lek submissiveness returned when she saw his look of disapproval: perhaps it was the dim lights and heavy shadows obscuring his face, but whatever it was, his face reminded her of the cruel Nightlands of Ryloth that froze her blood— she was petrified, and yet, by morbid curiosity or a sense of nostalgia, she dared not face away...

"C'mon, baby!" Carmine swooned, "You're better than that!" Dia had turned to see Carmine viewing her with her hands holding up her head. Instinctively, Dia looked down, her hand tugging at her arm. Yet, in that second, Diomeni had soundlessly bridged the gap they made to view her face again.

He bore his glowing eyes into her with an otherworldly expression. "Don't dance to my content, but to yours..." And she gasped as long nails traced down her lekku, "It's the only way I can grant you sanctuary."

He stepped backward, again without a sound, to give her space. As her mind was, her open-mouthed face shook as if struck by a delaying effect of some creature she couldn't comprehend. If her mind could function properly, she would ask, 'How does he keep doing that?' but it didn't, and she didn't care.

Instead, she obeyed.

Distantly pulling the memory of her favorite dance, she began to perform. Not halfway through the routine, she found herself creating new movements. Improvisation was nothing new for her; it was usually part of a performer's talents. Only this time, her heart pushed out everything: the grief of being stolen from her family, the loathing of her captors, the fear of that... revolting, walking talking intestine, the freedom she found in her agility, the hope that Diomeni presented, and finally the power— the actual, animalistic power— she gained from all of this!

She had never felt so alive! As hot and vicious as a lylek, Ryloth's most dangerous predator! No, Dia Ziveri felt beyond that! She felt like she was the extreme suns of Ryloth— one of a kind and perpetually bright! She was sure she was screaming in ecstasy, but she didn't care. All that mattered was her, and anything that couldn't handle her would burn! She felt more in tune with everything that ever was, so much that when she felt the cold Nightlands take her hand to spin her and lift her into the air for a finale—

And then, Dia awoke with a shriek as she was guided back down to the ground by an unseen force— nimbly laying back into Diomeni's arms as his dark eyes pierced her very being. She took a few more breaths before noticing sweat trailing down her face. A glance at the table showed no sign of Carmine, and instead, she felt a new set of fingers crawl up her lekku. She giggled for a moment before she remembered where she was and made to dash away the hot mess she had become.

"How was I?" Dia gulped. Diomeni went still— an imperious set of eyes gazing with the expressionless face she would expect from a statue. A moment later, a smile slowly carved its way onto his features.

"Before twilight comes eventide. As there are stars above, so too shall a cleansing commence with the flood."

He towered over her and was pleased not to see her cower. Though, when he placed three fingers on her forehead, she trembled.

"And it was said, never mind the fear of drowning. Never mind the dragging of the stone. If thou are strong, thou shall not escape the stone, yet thou will destroy it. Thou shall learn to wield this flood to break down any wall before thee. Reshape any temple to thy heart's desire. Time is of no consequence."

Suddenly, she saw her reflection in pale, icy-blue orbs that seemed to flicker as a candle's flame— she was ultimately electrified with the intimate sensation of this metamorphosis.

Diomeni smiled at her thoughts. She knew less than she felt. But soon enough, that would change.

"Serve with sacrifice, rejoice with eternal pleasure, and live through the truth." Gently laying his fingers to guide her spellbound face to his, "Allow love and truth to enter thy heart, and thou shall understand my words. For I am your words, and I am your future. Do you agree, Dia?"

"Yes," Dia answered.

Carmine whispered into her ear. "If we razed this temple to the ground and danced on that Hutt's carcass, would you join us?"

There was a pause from Dia, but not out of hesitance. Dia dragged a long, feral breath as if the question was loaded with the most intoxicating aroma she had ever wanted— needed.

"Yes!" She growled out. Carmine, delighted by the unexpected sound, placed a long kiss on her cheek in return. It was the moment Diomeni had pressed his lips on the Twi'lek— enough time to fill her with power and to open her eyes. Filling her with something to revive what lay beneath her very being, long dormant and ready for euphoria. When separated, her eyes opened languorously at her reflection again— Dia Ziveri had never seen herself more lucid than she did inside his eyes.

"Yes, and it is then, and only then you will have me. Then and only then will you know my name is," A pale yet firey grin revealed itself, "Diomeni."

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Outside, the ragged man paid no mind to the room's noises; his only duty was to stand guard. Technically he should have met with some of his friends in the Temple— they had probably started their game of Sabacc without him. But it didn't matter anymore.

Not after he had shared a drink with that Zeltron.