There are few stories that are told among the Jedi Order long enough to become myth. Legend. It takes importance to stand the test of time that way. A lesson has to be learned.
Anakin and Circe's story is told for generations long after they are go...
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In front of Anakin, Circe sits in an stiff metal chair. Mud has dried across her pale face, staining the white of her hair. There's blood on the corner of her mouth, most likely from biting down on her tongue when she fell. The inside of Anakin's cheek aches for the same reason, but he forces the pain down to the very back of his mind. He must focus.
A tall, full man stands against the wall in the corner behind her. But not a man like Anakin, not a human. Something he hasn't seen before. Something with dark, shiny gills running up its neck and face, ending at a pair of black, sunken eyes.
He bristles as the creature steps towards Circe. His muscles are tense, he knows she can sense it, but he doesn't care. She has always been the more level-headed of them, and if this thing hurts her, Anakin will see blood. He will not leave this planet without it.
"Hello, Jedi," The strange thing speaks, tilting it's head. "I'm so glad you're joining us. I'll be taking care of you today. I'm something of a doctor around here."
"How delightful," Anakin breathes sarcastically, letting his eyes shift only to search the room for his lightsaber.
The doctor laughs a horrible, scratching sound. "Yes, I'm sure you're not feeling your best right now. Rather like a fly caught in a trap, I would imagine. Though, I assure you, if we work together, no harm will come to either of you. I am a man of medicine, after all."
"Yeah? What kind?" He asks coldly.
The creature stares down at his feet. "Oh, I specialize in herbs. Poisons."
Anakin stares defiantly up at him.
"Torture," The doctor sighs finally. "Extraction of information."
"We don't have anything of use for you. We're not Masters yet. We don't even have Padawans," Circe says, breaking her silence.
He approaches her, pulling at a strand of white hair. "Oh... I think you two will be plenty useful."
Anakin pulls at his cuffs, which bang loudly against his chair. "Back up," He says, glaring at the grey-skinned creature.
"Very good. We'll start with her then," The doctor says.
He approaches a tray of equipment—needles, pliers, rods, drills, and a number of shiny vials containing a thick clear liquid.
Circe squirms slightly in her seat when the doctor settles beside her, pulling the tray with him.
Panic flares in Anakin at the look on her face. Panic that he should've unlearned years ago. Panic that becomes dangerous to Jedi. Become too flustered and your focus blurs, you put yourself in more danger than you were already in. But his heart is thrashing against his rib cage as the doctor begins rifling through his tools. He can feel her senses heighten, fogging up the room like smoke. His nerves begin to burn with adrenaline, with an ache to do something. It ignites every cell in his body.
