Chapter Text
Hera's eyes dart around at the women surrounding her, all of them clad in nothing more than thin white basics that leave very little to the imagination, each of them running their hands over the sheer kerchiefs that do little to cover their heads—as if the material is somehow preserving their modesty. She tries but fails to convince herself that it's days like today that she’s thankful that she's considered pale when it comes to Twi'lek women, that her jade skin is at least slightly more concealed by the sick substitution for clothing that the slavers have them dressed in, more so than her Lethan sisters with their dark red skin. It never works, the thing where she tries to convince herself that her circumstances are just a little bit better or might get better, but that hasn’t done much to make her stop trying.
Although she wants to convince herself that she's concerned about the safety of the other women surrounding her, that she doesn't want them to befall the fate that awaits them, she isn't. Instead, she's sizing up the competition, evaluating the other stock surrounding her and trying to determine her chances of surviving this auction to see another day. It's not like she wants to be up for sale, but that's not a choice she has. All she can do is hope that today is the day that she becomes property of anybody but Black Sun.
The idea of being okay with belonging to somebody else does absolutely nothing to quell the uneasiness she feels. She's not sure when she lost her fire, when she stopped listening to her mother's distant instructions to never lose her stubborn streak, or what it was that finally caused her to give up her fight. All she knows is that those days are gone and ruminating on them isn't going to improve her chances of being purchased, odds that are already way too low because she isn't worth the price that they're asking.
All of the pens are full today but like every auction she's been put through before, she's still kept with a smaller stock—a selection of girls that the slavers claim are special. She knows that at the age of eighteen that her chances of being sold today are even worse than they were last month. The older girls never sell, no matter what makes them unique compared to the rest of the stock, but it doesn't exactly help that she's not in pristine condition, either. The slavers would never admit to their buyers that they'd already sampled the fare but she's certain that the combination of a poor job of using makeup to cover the bruises along her arms and legs coupled with her protruding ribs makes it pretty clear even to the most spiced up of bidders that she's used goods.
When the auction begins, she does her best to keep a submissive posture with her eyes cast to the ground, her arms relaxed but not loose at her side, and hopes against hope that somebody, anybody, will buy her. She has to tell herself again that it's better not to think about the fact that she actually wants one of these bastards to claim ownership of her, or about how long it's been since she started praying to the Goddess that somebody would finally put down the obscene price that the cruel syndicate known for their specialty of sentient trafficking was asking for her. All that will do is result in her face falling, her expression contorting into something that lands solidly between rage and dejection, and with her starved frame and the bruises she doesn't really need help looking even less appealing to any potential customers. In the past, buyers have reached out to grab her by the chin, lifting her face and tilting her head from side to side to examine her more closely, but she learned the hard way to only look them in the eye if they tell her to.
She can't let them see what she's feeling.
Not that it matters.
Today, nobody seems even remotely interested in her, especially when there's so many younger girls available at a far cheaper price.
After all, she's a Syndulla, and that name comes with a cost.
One that nobody will ever pay.
As the numbers in the pens start to dwindle, a low rumble of murmurs ripple through the few remaining around her, the girls speaking only in pure Ryl, not the bastardized version that's intermingled with Huttese—the one that the syndicates use to make their demands. There's a few of them, Hera included, that know what will happen if they don't sell today. It's not an exaggeration to say that the girls who end up dancing in cantinas with chains around their necks will know a more comfortable life than what's in store for her.
Just when she's certain that she isn't going to escape the gut-twisting grip of the men who punctuate their demands with a shockprod cranked up to a cruelly high voltage and cannot keep their hands to themselves no matter what their station, a man who appears to be Human by what little bit of him that she can see steps forward. He's wearing robes that are tattered and far too heavy for the scorching Ryloth sun, with the cowl drawn up high to conceal his face to all of those around him. The worn clothing makes him look out of place against the wealthy members of the crowd but the amount of credit chips he extends to the auctioneer in a calloused hand with skin the color of copper proves to her—and the auctioneer—that he fits right in.
Hera doesn't immediately comprehend that he's handing over those credits for her. When the realization dawns on her, she still doesn't move, despite the increasingly irate demand for her to go with the man. Instead, Hera stands frozen, paralyzed by a combination of fear and elation, like she simultaneously wants to run toward this twisted form of salvation and make an attempt to flee in the hopes that she'll end up like one of the girls who get an easy death with a blaster bolt to the back of their head.
In the end she finally steps forward and just stands there while one of the syndicate's handlers, the one with a trail of the syndicate's tattoos down his cheek, manhandles her, yanking her around to aggressively put a pair of temporary binders that are far too large on her thin wrists before he shoves her in the direction of her new owner.
At least she'll never have to worry about that particular bastard ever again. He never forgave her after she made a solid attempt at tearing his jugular out with her teeth, nor did he ever stop punishing her for it, either even if it happened three years ago. It's only now, as she's prodded away from the pen, that she allows herself to reminisce on the long gone sense of satisfaction from the scar on his neck—he'll wear for the rest of his life because of her.
The things that he did to her after she tried to kill him the only way she knew how to without a weapon had her regretting her choices for years.
Now that he can't hurt her anymore, she lets herself feel a small burst of pride as she takes in the large scar on his neck for the last time, and then turns away from him.
As a final bid farewell, she turns her lekku into the small of her back, a Twi'leki phrase that he knows all too well, and Hera immediately finds herself wishing she hadn't acted out. The shockprod that she temporarily allowed herself to believe she had finally escaped strikes at the small of her back, sending electricity coruscating over her skin and causing her to cry out in unfathomable pain. Every muscle in her body seizes up and contracts, twisting her limbs and lekku alike, until she falls face first into the dirt at her new owner's feet.
Apparently, her new owner isn't too pleased with this turn in events, and he draws his fist back. She closes her eyes, expecting that he's going to lash out at her, but instead his target is the jaw of the syndicate bastard. The auctioneer apologizes to the buyer—not for the bastard who just delivered a high voltage blow to Hera—but for the goods misbehaving. Unsurprisingly, he does not offer a refund, full or partial. The auctioneer's only offer for penance is that of the bastard's shockprod because it's always been good for controlling the more unruly purchases, his in particular as he gestures to Hera.
The man declines.
Hera waits for some other form of punishment from her new owner; a slap to the face, a firm grip around her arm that will just leave more bruises, being shoved into the craggy ground, but no punishment comes. Instead, he simply turns on his heel and starts walking away. He doesn't even look back in her direction to see if she's pulled herself off of the ground to follow him. If they weren't so close to the other men whose eyes that she can still feel on her body, she’d let herself think about making a run for it, but what would be the point? They'd just find her again and she wouldn't be lucky enough to meet a swift end.
So, she simply follows her new Master.
She does her best to keep her eyes focused on the ground before her, to maintain her posture of subversion, but her gaze drifts upward too frequently. The man hasn't said a word. He's not even keeping his eyes on his purchase.
It would be so easy to slip out of these binders, she tries to tell herself, but she still doesn't make an attempt.
Her will to fight was taken from her, along with everything else, a long time ago.
After what feels like forever, they arrive at a small craft tucked deep into one of the canyons, as though the man was trying to conceal his medium sized starship that isn't all that impressive. The hydraulics hiss to life, smoke coiling around them in a heavy crowd as a ramp lowers. He stands back, clearly expecting her to board the ship first, although he doesn't say as much nor does he give any sort of gesture to indicate his expectations.
Hera's starting to think that maybe the guy doesn't speak Basic.
That doesn't stop her from boarding the ship anyway, like a well-behaved pet, a perfectly trained Twi'lek bred to behave for any man with enough credits to lay claim to her.
She hates herself for it, but what choice does she have?
It's a rhetorical question because she knows that she doesn't. The girls and women of Ryloth never had a chance or a choice. They've been doomed to this fate since the day that their system, filled to the brim with spice and an attractive species of women, was discovered.
As she steps into what looks to be a cargo bay, her eyes quickly dart around her surroundings while she keeps her chin tucked downward, as she tries to take in the new environment so she knows what to expect. A gasp that she tries but fails to contain leaves her lips when she notices that there's not a single weapon or torture device in sight. When she realizes what she's done, she immediately recoils, waiting for the strike that she knows she deserves for daring to do something like make a noise without being addressed, but it never comes.
Instead, the man disappears through a hatch that sounds as though it locks behind him once the door closes and she's left alone in the cargo hold, shivering in her flimsy basics from a combination of the cold and wondering about the horrors that await her. Nausea washes over her that when she realizes that maybe she shouldn't have wished to be freed from the hell that the syndicate had her living in. At least with them, she knew what to expect. With this new owner who has yet to show his cards, save for the singular punch thrown that made it clear that he's both strong and has a short fuse, she doesn't know what's going to happen to her—and he's just left her here in this room devoid of any clues to wonder what's about to become of her.
Hera sinks to the ground, lies down on her side, closes her eyes, and wishes for her nightmare just to end.
The bite of the sharp decking against her tender flesh and the warmth of her tears against her chilled cheeks serve to remind her that this isn't a nightmare, though.
This is just her life now and it always will be.