Fic Summary: The General has no one with him on the third moon of Vassek but his bodyguards, his doctor, and his roggwart, Gor, where he resides. You are the victim of loathsome pirates. Your ship crashes in Grievous’ backyard. As you lie injured and immobile, dying, he sees himself reflected in your eyes.
There’s no reason EV-A4-D can’t fix you—not because it’s right, but because he’s selfish. No one needs to know—especially not the count. You become his pet project. What harm could it do, to have a little real company for once?
Warnings/notes: Reader experiences a frightening situation / threats of violence.
Word count: 1.8k
AO3 Link
Masterpost
Sleep came to you in small spurts only. You tossed and turned, overpowered by hunger. You had thought you would be able to wait it out, but you should have listened to the doctor.
You wondered if it was too late to contact him, not sure of the hour or if he would be in some way unavailable—perhaps recharging, or up to no good. He seemed to be the type, what with his confession about his previous employment. Yet he was the only being—sentient or not—within your orbit (besides the general) whom you could ask for help.
You decided to go for it, sitting up in bed. You pressed the touch-sensitive lamp off to the side, bathing the room in a pale glow. You eyed the holocomm on the bedside table. As if it mattered, you reached out for the top that rested where you left it—by now hanging off the edge of the mattress—and tugged it over your head and across your bare breasts.
Once situated, you pressed the button, attempting to hail the droid as if he were room service. You lightly chuckled at the thought, but it was to no avail—the doctor must be currently preoccupied.
You huffed a sigh. That left you no choice. You were going to have to go out to search for food.
Surely, Grievous’ fancy fortress had a kitchen, if for nothing else than those guests the droid had mentioned. Despite your abdomen not being fully intact, it did not prevent you from desiring a home‑cooked meal, if such a thing existed in this place—there was only one way to find out.
Shimmying into a pair of underwear, you squeezed into your pants—or what you knew to be your pants—finding a pair of socks stuffed inside the boots that rested on the floor. It felt odd to be wearing them over your artificial limbs, but it was not uncomfortable.
Once dressed, you stood and paused beside the door A4‑D had warned you about—he had explicitly instructed you not to wander around outside.
You contemplated this for a moment; the general had said Gor would no longer bother you, but could that be trusted? He was a wild beast, after all, and who knew what else milled about the halls.
You took a breath, pushed a button on the control panel, then stepped beyond the threshold.
No monsters lurked; nothing came to greet you. The corridor was empty—so far, so good.
Your boots echoed faintly with every footfall. Overhead globe lamps cast spooky shadows, causing you to want to quicken your pace, but you withheld. It was not as if you even knew what direction to take, walking for the sake of walking, hoping that you might come across a dining room somewhere nearby, the assumption being Grievous’ visitors would not have to go far to fill their bellies.
You were well on your way when you heard a sound—the clanking of metallic feet against flat stone. You were thrilled at the prospect—it must be the doctor, knowing that even if he was reluctant to do so, he would eventually point you in the right direction, most likely after scolding you for not staying put.
“Doctor!” you called out, anticipating him to turn the corner, even going so far as to close the gap—you were improving, growing more accustomed to your cybernetic leg. You hadn’t held onto the wall even once! It was something to be proud of.
Instead of the droid you expected, another stood before you. It was tall and imposing, its photoreceptors two pits of burning hellfire.
“You’re not the doctor…” you whispered.
It said something in what you thought was droidspeak, but it was garbled and deep. It took two steps toward you, and you took two steps back. It was dressed in a cape and some kind of headgear—it reminded you of Grievous, yet this one had no soul; he was entirely mechanical.
“Stay back,” you told it. The droid did not listen, responding with another round of clicks and robotic growls. It was armed, you realized; an electrostaff was strapped across its back.
Just then, another of its kind joined it, coming around from the opposing corner. They began communicating with one another in a way you could not understand. You did not intend to stick around, turning tail to flee while they were distracted, even though you thought that maybe this was a very bad idea.
The clicks got louder, more aggressive. You froze in place as one grabbed the back of your shirt's collar. It lifted you—quite literally—up off the ground.
“Hey, let me go!” you screeched, batting at its hand behind you, though you were unable to do so effectively—not that it made a single difference. You were overpowered as if a child. The droid began carrying you, even as you kicked your legs, somewhere off down the hall.
“What are you doing?! Where are we going? Put me down!” you demanded, unsure of what was about to happen to you.
Having been so far gone after your crash and nearing unconsciousness, you failed to realize these MagnaGuards had been present when the general had found you halfway to dead. It was perhaps the only reason they had not harmed you, though they seemed to know you should not be meandering about, exploring their master’s castle.
“I just wanted some food,” you protested. They did not seem to comprehend what you were saying—either that, or they did not care.
“You know, food?” You made a motion with your hand, as if eating. The two droids continued to disregard you, and you continued to be treated like a misbehaving youngling, having no choice but to be carted off like a pup by its scruff.
Ultimately, you were acting as if these droids could not simply kill you if they so wished, perhaps a better fate than facing Grievous. There was no doubt he would be unhappy.
“Please, let me go,” you whined. “I’ll go straight back to my room! I was just hungry.”
One of the IG-100s made a sound that you thought was meant to command you to shut up. He shook you roughly, then prodded you in the side.
“Ow! Stupid droid,” you scowled, hissing beneath your breath. You were becoming irritated; you said it without thinking, though the MagnaGuard had heard you loud and clear.
The next thing you knew, you had been slammed against the wall. The breath was knocked out of you as you crumpled onto the floor. These particular models were more discerning, it seemed—able to pass judgment, and to tell when they were being disparaged.
You gasped for air, having dropped onto your knees. You were no real threat, but that did not appear to matter to them, as the one who had been carrying you unleashed his shock staff, igniting both ends.
“What—no!” you pleaded, faced with a crackling of electricity so close to your face. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
Another slew of nonsense—the IG-100 remained incomprehensible. You covered your head and face in preparation for being struck, thinking that you might die here.
“That is enough,” came a calm but steady voice. Both MagnaGuards turned their heads—A4-D was addressing them from his end of the hall.
“You will put away your weapons and leave at once. This human is not to be harmed.”
You peeked out from under your arms from your spot on the ground, cowering in fear. Never had you been so glad to see a droid, watching as the MagnaGuard threatening you slowly lowered its electrostaff and secured it onto his back, per A4-D’s request.
“Thank you,” you breathed, watching as the two droids walked away in tandem, ignoring you completely as if you weren’t even there. It was just as well, you thought—wanting never to cross their paths again. You wondered at their purpose, though the doctor was quick to clue you in.
“IG-100 MagnaGuards—assassin droids, trained by the general himself. They guard his fortress. You are lucky they are programmed to listen to me in the absence of my Master.”
All you could do was nod, gradually unfolding your arms. You pushed up off your palms, though it was difficult with your new leg; walking was one thing, keeping your balance was another.
“I told you to stay put. Do you ever listen?” A4-D snapped.
You dusted off your pants, knowing they were the only pair you had, unsure when you might ever get to wash them. “I tried to comm you,” you said quietly, a borderline pout taking hold.
The droid sighed in an all-too-human way; it was slightly disconcerting. “And for what purpose?” he asked snootily.
“You said to tell you when I was hungry,” you replied, hanging your head, staring at the toes of your boots. Your stomach growled as if to back up your story, though you hadn’t known it was still capable of that—what with being made up of spare parts.
A4-D eyed you squarely, then puttered around, walking back in the direction he had come. “This way,” he directed.
Finally, you thought, curious as to what the droid might conjure up for you to eat. His voice interrupted your imaginings—you had been daydreaming about a loaf of freshly baked bread with a side of bluefruit jam and saltnut butter. You thought you could smell it now, and it reminded you of home.
Home... Freshly baked bread reminded you of home?
“I am beginning to think you are more trouble than you are worth,” the doctor began. “If you are to stay here and remain in my Master’s good graces, you will have to earn your keep.”
“My… keep?”
“Additionally, you cannot continue to disobey orders.”
“Orders?”
A4-D spun around, quicker than you believed he could move, all four of his limbs stretched out above and beside him in a menacing posture, as if he were trying to intimidate you—it was working.
“Yes, orders.”
You gave him a quizzical expression, though you felt trepidation building up inside you.
It was as if the doctor could read your mind.
“Do not worry, human. All in due time.”
You felt he was being nebulous again—on purpose.
“And it will make Grievous happy?” you asked, that being your only true concern.
A4-D found some humor in this, for he gave a derisive snicker before answering. “Oh yes. You will be a good little pet for him, or suffer the consequences—you may wish he had never rescued you.”
You did not appreciate the mirth with which the droid relayed this information, thinking he would rather you experience the latter.
Pet? You frowned at the word, though you did not correct him or argue, knowing that you had no choice but to please your host, having nowhere else to go. Yet you found the idea did not sound so terrible; you truly wanted to repay his kindness, even if that kindness did not last.
I had a break from painting while some rooms got remodeled in my house. This weekend getting back into things I managed to finish my unit of IG-100 Magnaguard droids for Star Wars Legion. These were General Grievous's body guards in Episode 3.
