It’s the collar that was the worst part of his captivity. Made of solid, rough metal, it dug into his windpipe when he breathed, swallowed, or turned his head too far. It’s the only clothing they’d given him, sitting in this barren cell, naked from the neck down. His healing leg was bound with a simple splint, the bone mended by a few sessions in the slaver ship’s bacta tank. He still wondered why they’d use bacta on a slave, especially with hundreds on this ship alone. The collar beeped menacingly as the sensors read his increasing heartbeat, and he quickly took a few breaths to calm himself. Maybe it’s his species. Maybe it’s his youthful, almost feminine looks. Or maybe it’s the living Force running through his veins.
	With a soft ringing, the slider on the cell door opened, revealing a small tray with a plain nutrient block and a glass of water. The same as he’d eaten ever since his imprisonment had begun. Mealy and unpleasant, but was hardly made for the taste. Taking the tray, the slider closed back up, the small window of living contact closing for the next however many hours. Carrying the tray back to the simple bed, he sat down, picking up the block and taking a bitter, rot-tasting bite. Washing it down with a sip of water, he rubbed at the chafed skin beneath his collar. Even with all this, there would be a weakness to exploit. This prison could not hold a wielder of the Force. All he needed to do is be patient.
	The lights never changed in the cell. They always remained at a dim sort of twilight, enough to navigate around, but not enough to read or do anything easily by. His spatial awareness had always been good enough to compensate, but it had the side effect of almost completely neutering his sense of time. He’d slept twelve times since he’d lost consciousness in the cockpit and awoken in the ship’s bacta tank. He had no idea how long he’ slept, or how often. It could be anywhere from a few days to upwards of two weeks. He’d wager money on the latter, but couldn’t be entirely sure. There wasn’t much he’s sure of at all. Maybe that’s the point.
	He’d slept four more times and had 9 more meals pushed through the slider in the cell door when his collar let out a harsh, ear-piercing whine. The Eighth Brother barely had time to put his hands over his ears before an electric current locked up every muscle in his body. Screaming in agony, the inquisitor collapsed to the ground, banging his healing leg against the metal of the floor, adding a flash of sharp pain to the hot, roiling paroxysm engulfing his being. The current flowed for about 10 more seconds before it stopped as instantaneously as it started, leaving him a quivering, choking mess on the ground, barely able to hold back sobs. It was impossible to even think of resistance as the door opened, and two burly zygerrians dragged him by the arms out into the light.
	Motor control came back to him bit by bit, his fingers curling into fists, his legs slowly catching the ground and pushing himself back to his feet. The collar begins beeping as the Jango Jumper grits his teeth against the pain, threatening swift retaliation for any aggression. If that wasn’t enough, he can see the electrified clubs on their belts. The two throw him headfirst into a small circular chamber, the glass door shutting behind him. Hands scrabbling against the door, it slips closed before the inquisitor can get a good grip. Frustration overtook him, and he started slamming himself shoulder first into the thick glass, ignoring the beeping of the collar until the shock left him convulsing on the floor of the sonic, the agony mixing with the feeling of the grime evaporating from his body.
	The lesson had been learned by the time they pulled him out of the sonic. Even with the pain subsiding and his muscles responding to his commands, there was little to do but follow the guards, barely putting one foot in front of the other. They mostly passed other guards, but once in a while Eight caught a glimpse of someone who looked like a physician, or an engineer, or a passenger. All zygerrian, without exception. Finally, the last door opened, and they stepped into the beast’s den.
	The chamber made the dining rooms of Imperial governors look like mere hovels. The metal of the ship gave way to finely hewn stone and carved wood. Two plates sat on opposite ends of the table, each piled with food that most likely cost more than the average Empire citizen made in a standard year. As he tries to recognize each piece, the guards haul him over to the nearest seat and force him into it. His body practically sinks into the padded leather, the first real seat he’s sat in since he was taken. The relief overwhelms him, and he practically sinks into the chair, not even bothering to resist as heavy straps were fastened across his wrists, ankles, thighs, stomach and chest. It wasn’t the most uncomfortable situation he’d been in; by this point, he was just happy to be sitting in something comfortable.
	The door at the opposite end of the room opened, and perhaps the most opulently-dressed woman Eight has ever seen entered. After a life of plain grey uniforms and black robes, the shining jewels and shimmering fabric was an affront to the inquisitor’s eyes. The zygerrian took a seat at the head of the table, leaning forward to fix her eyes with his. “Well,” she let a smile cross her lips. “I must say, you look much healthier out of the bacta.”
	Eight knew better to respond. Keeping his eyes on the zygerrian’s, he did his best to project an air of aloof defiance as the woman took the first bite of her dinner. Slowly, with a practiced grace, she takes chunks out of the finely braised meat, the inquisitor trying to force himself to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. The air shifts, bringing the scent of the plate in front of him right into his nostrils. It’s too much. He gave in, looked down. The food beckoned to him, fresh vegetables and juicy meat making the beast of hunger howl in his gut. The slaver’s smile only grew wider as she watched him out of the corner of her eye.
	“It does look good, doesn’t it? I had it made especially for you. How about we make a deal, hm? I’ll let you have some if you have a nice, productive conversation with me?” Her smile shows off a mouth full of a predator’s teeth. Eight wants to say no, wants to spit at her, but the food smells so good, and his gut moans with hunger. He speaks his first word in days, voice cracking slightly from disuse. “Yes.”
	He bites his tongue as the slaver stands up. The realization of what a defeat he’s happily walked into washes over him as the woman sits in the seat beside his, cutting a bite of meat and spearing it with a fork. “Now, why don’t we start with introductions?” She lets the morsel hover close enough to smell, just out of reach. “What’s your name?”
	“I am the Eighth Brother.” The words come out before he can stop them. He doesn’t have much time to think about it before the food is in his mouth, the juices running over his tongue. The slaver slowly pulls the fork out of his mouth, letting him savor the taste. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? We’re making progress already!” She laughs with a false friendliness that makes his skin crawl. “I am Thela Marheel, captain of this fine vessel, and owner of all chattel within it. You, my exotic friend, are currently my guest of honor. Most of my passengers, we don’t find drifting about in experimental Imperial fighters, wearing such an intriguing outfit. You looked quite nice in that suit, by the way. I may have to find a way to get you back into it, ahuhu!” She picks up another forkful of food, feeding it to him. “I hope you’ve found your lodgings acceptable. It feels like it was only a few years ago our prisoners would sleep on the open ground, or all chained together in the cargo hold. Such savagery,” she tuts. Another forkful. “I must say, you’re quite lucky to have been picked up by our ship as opposed to one of the dreadful raiders that trawl these systems.” She slowly feeds him, the inquisitor eagerly scarfing down everything he’s given.
	After a couple of minutes, the slaver’s lips pursed slightly. “I say, you are a quiet one. Most of my guests, I have trouble stopping once they get going. But you? My, my. I may as well be talking to a doll.” The emphasis on the last word was accompanied by a well-manicured claw tracing its way up Eight’s toned chest, over his throat before coming to a rest on his chin. Instinctively, he jerked his head away from the touch. “Don’t touch me!” He snaps
	The woman spluttered, before breaking out in laughter. “Oh! Oh, hohoho! Ohhh, my! I always love the energetic ones! I find they’re the most defiant, at first at least. It’ll make a good show, at least. I’m going to love having that spunk by my side.” Eight’s nails dug into the arm of the chair at her words. The gesture didn’t escape her notice. “Oh, don’t be like that. This doesn’t have to be something awful and laborious. What I’m proposing is a respite from all the danger and injury of the Inquisitorius- yes, dear. I know perfectly well about them.” She leans in close, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. “When I found you in that drifting ship, I knew there was something different about you. Something beautiful and exotic. I offer you this, and you still fight like you want to go back to the Empire? To a lifetime of shaved heads and tasteless food, for shame.”
	Anger roiled in Eight’s gut. He wanted nothing more than to break out of this chair, shove his thumbs in this slaver’s eyes until he could feel her brains. The collar started its beeping, just like it always did when he got angry. Marheel giggled. “You can imagine that most of the subjects I bring on board are angry at first. But after a while, many of them come to accept, even embrace what I offer! I can give you a life of comfort and luxury, and you snarl at me like a beast. Would you rather I sent you back to your cell?”
	Eight caught himself actually considering her offer, if only for an instant at first. How much better was his lot with the Inquisitorius? The quarters he was allotted were barely better than the cell as it was, the food mealy and tasteless like she’d said. This place, the warm light, the colors, the food…All so different from anything the inquisitor is used to. What would he really be giving up by letting go? It was hardly like the Empire would send a rescue party. He’d come to terms with his expendability long ago. How easy it’d be to leave everything behind, live here, with the (quite beautiful) captain, the clean air, the food…
	The food.
	He spat out the half-mouthful of meat he’d been savoring, spraying it across the table. Instinctively, he started pulling at the straps, trying to get his hand to his mouth to shove his fingers down his throat, purge the drugged food from his system before it wrought whatever mind-warping effects it was supposed to. The captain yowled in anger, a surprisingly strong punch sending Eight’s head spinning. “Wretched little ingrate!” She snarled, pupils constricting to dots as she bared her teeth, the predator emerging from under the veneer of civilization. The two made eye contact, disdain clashing with defiance as each one did their best to project their utter loathing at the other. Eight for his part had about two seconds to celebrate his small victory before the collar went off again, and all he could do was scream.
	He’d gotten to her. He’d rattled the slaver in her own territory. The satisfaction at that act is enough to assuage the aches and spasms still popping up all over his body, even hours after Marheel had finally stopped the shocks and let the guards drag his limp, quivering body from the room. Legs folded beneath him, hands resting in his lap, Eight let thoughts of her imminent revenge fade from his mind. He had won. He’d shown the slaver that she wasn’t some irresistible temptress who could seduce anyone from their path. Taking in a slow, deep breath, the jumper’s eyes closed, and he let the Force wash over him.
	Even as inexperienced as he was, in a ship this packed the presence washed over him like a wave. Hundreds, maybe thousands of living souls, caught in a mix of terror, despair and agony, bleeding into resigned acceptance among the more senior prisoners. Flickering amongst the miasma, embers of arrogant sadism drifted through the ship, cowing the prisoners as they passed. He watched as each soul darkened with fear in turn, the same way citizens withered from his presence when he passed alongside one of his siblings. That utter lack of security and familiarity when confronted with an authority they didn’t fully understand. Minding the atmosphere of the ship for a few more moments, he turned his focus inwards.
	He wasn’t going to break. Everything he’d seen here, everything that had been done to him, he’d experienced it before. The pain of electrocution, the ache of hunger, the indignity at being denied something as basic as clothing. The slavers were relying on the shock of the imprisonment, the sudden reversal of all the slaves knew and took for granted, to force a quick surrender. He wouldn’t be thrown off guard. He wouldn’t be broken or overwhelmed. The Force flowed through his body, pushing the pain of the cramps and hunger far to the edge of his mind as he let it overtake him. Picking through his memories, he plucked moments of particular indignity from the morass. A guard groping him as he was brought to his cell. Leers and stares from the crew. The theft of his clothes, probable sale or scrapping of his Sister’s ship. He could feel the anger warming up inside him. Not a raging blaze like before, but a calculated, focused spear. A few moments later, he opened his eyes, feeling as healthy as he had ever been. These slavers were experienced, but they made the mistake many would-be Jedi had: Underestimating the Inquisitorius.
	Thela Marheel leaned over her personal terminal, watching the data readouts being sent by the Jango Jumper’s collar. The boy had potential. More than potential, he had power. Actual, tangible power. She knew full well of the Force, and the link it shared with many in the galaxy, but she’d had yet to meet one who could actually use that sensitivity to exert the power of the Force on the physical world. The Jedi had been wiped out when she was still a girl, their records atomized so that by the time she was a woman, only whispers remained. And to not only see a Force wielder this close, but to have one imprisoned, was an opportunity she could not afford to miss.
	Immediately, she began typing out messages and orders. She’d need to act fast if she wanted to break him before he broke her. Miraj Scintel had thought she could break users of the Force with whips and shackles. Old fashioned and useless, just like everything else about Scintel. Marheel had little use for the things; she had a much better method in mind. By the time she was done with him, the inquisitor wouldn’t just serve her, a sniveling broken thing. He would love her, wholly, with his entire being, whether he wanted to or not.