KotOR I: Orin Dakall

“I... I don’t know that I really want to talk about it anymore.”



A little voice in Carth’s head, he assumed it was his conscience, told him to let her be. She’d said enough for one night.



He ignored it.



“How much have I told you when I didn’t want to?”



Her eyes closed. “The race--”



“Is still over a dozen hours away. I can be a pestering pain in the ass too, Dakall.”



“Never realized you thought you weren’t,” she returned dully.



Let it be for tonight. You can talk to her about it later, when she’s ready.



Bullshit. She forced me to talk about Saul when I wasn’t ready to. If she can’t take what she dishes out, well, she’ll just have to figure out how to. Besides, when is she going to give me another chance to know?



“Come on,” he said, a bit harsher than he’d intended.



“Can’t we talk about it later?”



“When?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbow. “When Mission gets back? When Zaalbar does? After we’ve rescued Bastila and she’s tagging along wherever we go?”



Orin’s face was tense, her eyebrows knit and her eyes still closed.



“What did they do?” Carth demanded.



“Torture,” she whispered. “Obviously.”



Don’t do it, he thought. Don’t you fucking dare--



“How?”



“Oh,” she said, her voice gaining some small defensive strength, “they each had their own favorite method.”



His eyes traveled to her scars.



“One of them cut you?”



“Bloodletting. That’s how he referred to it. Though that was nearer the end.”



God, don’t ask. I don’t want to know.



“How did it start?”



“They drugged me. As I was getting off my transport. When I came to I was in some apartment in the Upper City. Posh... Not like the shit holes we’ve been to. I, I...” Her words petered out. It was then that he saw something wrong near her eyes. Something shiny. Her hands flew up, covering her face.



No. No no no no no. She’s crying. I made her cry. I... I’m such a fucking heel. I’m a bastard.



Carth Onasi, top pilot and gifted with the super-human ability to make strong women weep.



I told myself to stop, to leave her alone, but no, I just had to-- I hate seeing her do that. She’s, she’s not allowed to do that. She’s not allowed to have human weakness. She’s strong and, oh god, I should be shot.



“Dakall, I, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you. Please, just...” He reached out, placing his hand gently on her wrist.



Mistake.



She didn’t move. She may not have even realized he touched her. But immediately, his brain was overloaded with images, sounds, smells.



There were flashes of the posh apartment, blurry as his eyes tried to focus. The realization he was bound, gagged, and naked. The cold-sweat horror of it.



The six figures towering above him. The indescribable pain, if only because he couldn’t comprehend having a uterus, as he was raped. The gag ripped from his mouth and him forced to service a Twi’lek orally.



He bit down, with all the strength he had, and then the beatings began.



Now his vision was blurry because he’d been hit so many times in the head, and his field of vision lessened by his eyelids beginning to swell shut. He screamed as a Transhodan ripped open his anus, bucking against the Rodian still taking him.



At first he thought it was a whip. When he opened his eyes, though, he saw it was the flat of a vibroblade. One of the humans was swinging it down onto his chest and stomach with extraordinary strength.



Through the haze of leering grins and taunts, one whispering, earnest voice came through.



“Beg me. Beg me to kill you and I’ll end it now. Davik be damned. I’ll slit your throat and squeeze every drop of blood from you. You can be at peace. And I can have my fun. Beg me, Stranger. Beg me. End both our miseries.”



Carth asked to be gagged again. He was punched in the throat. The voice returned.



“At least cry for me, baby. One little tear? Pretty, oh pretty please?”



Another blow to the stomach. Carth gritted his teeth, refusing to allow his eyes to water.



“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “We have plenty of time.”



Then, the bloodletting. Small shallow cuts, beginning at his navel and radiating outwards across his body.



He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, willing his mind elsewhere. Then pain shot through him, his eyes shooting open. Fingers pressed down onto the cuts, his skin tearing from the pressure.



“Don’t you go running off,” another voice said, amused. “You expect me to get my jollies off without so much as a squirm or a whimper? We can’t all be necrophiliacs.”



The seconds, minutes, and hours all dragged on, with him forced to remain present, conscious, and in agony. Semen burned in his open wounds, mixing with blood. The laughter and jeers were unending, emblazoning themselves into his mind. The hitting, cutting, and raping continued until his mind finally, blissfully, collapsed, unable to take any more.



When he regained consciousness, his bonds were cut, and a note was taped to the fresh wounds on his chest. He stared at the ceiling for several minutes, in his mind, still screaming. Forever screaming.



At last, he closed his eyes and ripped the note from his skin.



Welcome to Taris! it said.



As you can see, I’ve already fulfilled this planet’s role of crime lord.



If, however, you are interested in alternative employment, I have several openings available. Smugglers, of course, or perhaps enforcement, if you feel your tastes have now altered. Let me know which you prefer!



Refusal is not one of the options open to you. And, if your welcoming party has done its job adequately, you know how hurt I was at hearing of your intentions to usurp me. Imagine how I’ll react if you disappoint me now.



All my best,



Davik



Carth snatched his hand back from Orin’s wrist, sweaty and panting, eyes wide. She turned onto her side, her hands still covering her face. He stared at her back, his hand raised, and saw that it was shaking. That he was shaking.



That, that was... But how? How did she... How did I...



He shook his head, his rationality trying to make sense of what happened while every other part of him screamed. Screamed to be left alone, to hide, to die. His throat tightened and his face felt burning hot. Why couldn’t he just die?



He rolled over, curling up as close to the bed’s edge as possible, and let his mind drift into the troubled sleep he knew Orin was sharing.