Title: Transformation
Author: Siduri ((*gasp* Actually trying her hand at a "real" fan fiction))
Characters: Maul and female
Type: ABH and present tense which is not a usual thing for me but I think it
will work in this case.  Suspense, and a little smut at the end. Ok, maybe a
lot of smut, but I'm not there yet so we'll so how it goes.
Inspiration: Bram Stoker's Dracula, and an alcohol-induced dream which shall
account for the dark imagery.
Smut Rating: Tame for now. But that's just for now.
Archive: Don't think anyone would want it. Crysta, if you do, it's yours.
Disclaimer: Maul's not mine; he belongs to God King Lucas as well as the
locale.  All hail God King Lucas for letting me play with Maulykins for a
while!  Also the line about fear belongs to Frank Herbert, Lord of the
Duneverse.
Feedback: *grins* Bitch all you want! I can take it. *laughs*  SiduriArchanes@usa.net


Warning: This story may disturb some.  Those who have no inclination toward
the classic Gothic horror tales may not find this to their liking or even
agreeable with their stomachs.  If you think that's you, please just click the
delete key since I don't want to sacrifice the power of some of the images.


Coruscant, Pre-Phantom Menace

      You awake in the middle of the night feeling chilled by the crisp air.  You
had thought you had closed the balcony door before going to sleep, and yet,
the wind is causing the curtains to billow inward, projecting eerie shadows
against the walls.  You lie in bed for a moment, silently weighing whether you
are cold enough to actually get up to close the door or if you should merely
turn over and pull the covers over your head.  The second choice seems far
more attractive, and yet, you know that there shall be the possibility of
being awakened again if the temperature should fall further throughout the
course of the night.  You glance at the chronograph on the stand across from
your bed, its luminosity being the only source of light within the room, apart
from that of the stars themselves, visible through the fluttering of the
curtains.  Indeed, there is still enough of the night left to warrant closing
the door.
      As you push aside the blanket and comforter, sliding your legs out of the
bed, your eyes catch a glimpse of a shadow.  You freeze, realizing that the
shadow is far too large to have been the result of the curtains.  You have not
believed in the boogeyman or the wraith-snatchers of Catalon IV since you were
a child, and yet your heart-rate is increasing.  Rather, your adult
sensibilities have triggered your body into responding to a real, tangible
fear.  There is someone out there.  A burglar, perhaps?  But what is there to
steal?  Certainly, there were far more affluent persons on all of Coruscant if
this was the motive for the intrusion.  A bounty hunter or assassin?  But who
could have sent him?  You are but a lowly court reporter for the senate
proceedings, your level of importance being minimal, as only the droids rank
below yourself.  Surely, someone in his right mind would not have hired a
bounty hunter since you know that no one would consider it worth shelling out
all the credits. But there is hardly any comfort in this knowledge. 
      The shadow seems to grow, taking the form of a humanoid, and yet, you are
still frozen in terror, unable to move toward it or even to run out of the
bedroom.  You wonder if it can hear your heart beating and repeat a line
within the confines of your mind that your mother once recited to you as a
child, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death..."
You know that your fear shall only make its power over you stronger, and yet
it is impossible to not be afraid.
      "Don't come any closer!" You warn, your voice trembling slightly.
      There is no response from the being, but you are convinced that it is
grinning in a sinister fashion although you cannot see its face or anything
else apart from the shadow it casts. And yet, there is no sign of it
retreating.  You must do something.  Your body is shivering from both the cold
and the intruder's presence.
      As you pull yourself from the bed, you wrap the comforter around your
shoulders seeking strength and warmth within its folds.  Your bare feet make
no sounds as they take infinitesimal steps towards the open balcony door and
the source of the shadow.  As you are about to open your mouth again, ready to
threaten the being with calling of the Planetary Security Forces, it is gone,
the shadow fading into oblivion.  You drop the comforter, racing out onto the
balcony, but there is no one there apart from an icy coldness, far worse than
that of the wind before.  Shivers give way to outright shakes as you cross
your arms below your breasts, trying to keep your body heat from escaping.
Your eyes pierce
into the night-time cityscape of Coruscant searching for clues as to where the
intruder may have come from and whether he is still watching you.  Ten minutes
pass and your search yields no results.  You are freezing to death and step
back into the confines of your bedroom, bolting the balcony door shut.  You
draw the curtains across the door and leap back into your bed, squeezing your
eyes shut and hoping by morning you will realize that you were merely
hallucinating.

      Days pass since the occurrence of the event.  You move about as if you are in
a daze, finding it difficult to pay attention at work, your fingers slipping
off of the keys and your head falling forward, almost onto the stenography
machine itself, at odd moments.  More than once you have seen certain senators
arch their eyebrows at you in dismay.  There are even talks of replacing you
with one of the protocol droids who would be able to transcribe everything
into Basic as they are compiling testimony. Your days are spent in agony, as
each night you cannot sleep no matter how many sleeping pills you take or
other remedies you subject yourself to.  Your body will not allow it.  Your
subconscious is over-ruling all the attempts of your conscious mind to get a
good night's sleep, as it knows that by sleeping, you are allowing yourself to
be vulnerable if the intruder should appear again. Your friends and co-workers
have wondered what has happened to you, since they deem you to be paranoid
now.  But you are not paranoid. You know you are being watched.
      After one week and more cups of stim-caff than you have drank since your
school days, you cannot avoid fate any longer. You are worn out through and
through and curl up on your bed, thinking that just a little nap won't hurt,
especially since you've left all the lights on within the room.  But lights
and locks mean nothing for this intruder.  He, indeed, has been watching you
for far longer than you have realized,  waiting for the moment, like a cat
poised to pounce upon a mouse, for you to let your guard down.  And now, you
have provided him with his opportunity.
      Ancient padlocks and modern coded entry systems cannot bar him from entering.
The slight motion of his hand is all that is needed for the metal bolts and
chains to fall to the floor and the soft, chilling whisperings of the ancient
spell of Electronic Manipulation allow him easy access to override the
security workings of the balcony door.  Another wave of his hand and a burst
of telekinetic energy pushes the door forth, coldness filling the apartment.
      You are still asleep, the exhaustion being so great that you do not respond
to the drop in temperature aside from the goosebumps forming upon the exposed
portion of your shoulders and upper arms.  You grasp the pillow, a soft moan
issuing from your lips as you instinctively turn away from the source of the
cold, still heavily under Morpheus' sway.  The intruder comes forth, standing
at the foot of the bed, his body concealed underneath a heavy black cloak, its
hood pulled up to mask his face as well.  His eyes bore into you, as he merely
watches you sleep, making no form of movement.   His gaze is a scientific one,
taking note of your features as if he were categorizing you for some form of
study, rather than that of a homicidal maniac.
      You stir lightly within your sleep, not knowing that he has come fully around
the bed and is hovering over your body.  Your eyes snap open as they are met
with his own, peering at you from the shadowy darkness underneath the black
cowl.  Your mouth opens, forming a perfect circle as you cry out in fear and
yet, soon your cries are silenced.  The voluminous cloaked form engulfs you,
snatching you from your bed.  That is the last thing you recall before you
pass out.

     
Part III

      You awaken, lying upon the bed in your room, your arms swept upward, resting
underneath the pillow.  As your eyes slowly begin regain their focus from the
amorphous blackness of sleep, you recall the intensity of the intruder's
piercing, bloodshot yellow eyes.  No, that was not merely part of a dream, as
you never have had such vivid dreams before and certainly remember being awake
when he had fully manifested himself.  Your heart beats faster and faster as
anxiety overtakes you.  Instantly, you duck your head underneath the covers,
searching your lower region to see if you have been violated.  Nothing
particularly seems to ache or sting, yet, if what you had witnessed was not a
hallucination nor the haunting of a specter within a dreamworld, there is a
strong possibility that you have been raped.  You shift your legs, as you peer
under the covers, trying to catch a glimpse of your inner thighs, silently
hoping, praying that you won't find any traces of dried blood or semen.  But
it is too dark to get a good look.  You attempt to slide your arms out from
underneath the pillow to pull the comforter and sheet off of yourself, but you
recoil in horror to discover that you cannot move your arms!  You arch your
back, lifting your chin upward so that your eyes confirm your worst thoughts:
your wrists have been bound together with stun cuffs and attached to the bed
post!
      "No, no," you whisper, hoping that perhaps all of this has just been a bad
dream induced by your lack of sleep this past week.  But you should be so
lucky.  You struggle to wrench your hands free of the cuffs, perhaps thinking
that they were manufactured for Wookiees or Barabels or other such larger
species that you could relatively easily slip your wrists out of them.  But of
course, they fit you like a bracelet, made especially for the wrists of a
human female such as yourself.  You decide not to play around with the cuffs
any longer as you do not wish to test the potency of their setting.  You then
realize whomever this intruder is, he has not gone about this in a sloppy
fashion.  But this is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
      You roll your head to one side of the pillow as another realization sinks in.
Your eyes stare at the bedroom furnishings, taking into account every little
detail, even the sock that is sticking out half-way from the upper drawer.
Visually, it all seems as if it is your room from that particular point of
view, but, as you roll your head to the other side of the pillow, the side
that would be facing the balcony, you are met with the awful realization that
it simply is not there!  Instead, there stands a large, mirrored wall in which
you meet your own reflection.  No longer do you wonder what the intruder might
have done to your room, but rather, where he has brought you, leaving you
within a cell meticulously recreated as if it were your very own bedroom. 
      This entire predicament has you feeling as if you could break down in tears
at any given moment. "Why me?"  You wonder in a moment of self-pity.  You are
afraid, more afraid than you have ever been in the duration of your life.
Your mother's words mean nothing to you now; what did she know of fear? Had
she been shackled to a bed at the workings of a madman? NO.  You are beginning
to lapse into hysterics.  Just the fact that the intruder had studied your
room to make such an accurate recreation scares you.  But the mirrored wall
terrifies you most of all; you know what it is from your comings and goings
within the Coruscant law courts and planetary security structures.  You wonder
if he's been watching you all this time from behind the mirrored wall and let
out a sob.  What you would give if you could trade being here in this pitiful
state with sitting in on one of those long-winded speeches of the Supreme
Chancellor or some of the senators like Bail Antilles of Alderaan, or
Palpatine of Naboo!  And you thought you had known what torture was before;
how wrong you were.

((Additional disclaimer: Sidious isn't mine either. 
Smut rating: getting up to PG-13 level))

Part IV


      You are, indeed, being watched from behind the mirrored wall for far longer
than you had even realized.  However, the pair of eyes are not the yellow
bloodshot ones belonging to that of the intruder, but are of another cloaked
figure, their very color concealed within the shadows of the extended cowl
over his head.  The only facial features of the figure that the cowl does not
hide are his squarish jaw and prominent nose that the coarse black fabric
almost touches the tip of. His arms are crossed, the volumes of cloth draping
into various folds as one sleeve intersects with the other so that one does
not know where one arm stops and the next begins.  Even his very stance is
suggestive that he is a man of severity.
      The doors behind the hooded figure slide open with a hiss, followed by the
militaristic sound of the yellow-eyed intruder's boots clicking against the
polished floor.  The intruder stops, just paces before the other dark, severe
figure, as if he were waiting to be acknowledged.  His black gloved hands
reach for the hood that covers his own head and lowers it, revealing his
demonic image. 
      "You have chosen well, Lord Maul," says the other, his voice dripping as if
it were liquid evil itself, and yet, he does not turn to face the intruder,
nor avert his gaze from that of the room beyond the mirrored wall.
      "Thank you, my Master," The yellow-eyed demon replies, his voice being the
antithesis of the first's: smooth, silky, and laced with the power of
seduction if he were to utilize it in such a fashion.
      "Go to her, my apprentice; you have waited long, trained hard, and now,
partake of your reward," ordered the hooded figure, turning toward the demon
intruder.  He proceeds toward the doorway, it sliding open as he approaches
and walks out of the room, his lengthy black robe trailing after him.
      "Yes, my Master," says the demon, whose bloodshot yellow eyes peruse over you
through the wall of mirrored glass before leaving to enter your cell by
conventional means.
__________________________________________________________________________

      Your body tenses as you hear the sound of the locks being released and the
Durasteel doors parting.  It is the intruder.  He progresses toward you, his
face fully exposed so that your eyes are forced to look upon his demon-like
visage, seeing it all without hindrance of darkness or shadows.  It terrifies
you.  The horns and the violent swirls of the red and black tattoos make him
seem as if he is more monster than man, if he is indeed a human after all.
You let out a gasp; you cannot help it, as it is more of an instinctive
reaction than anything else.  The intruder grins widely, displaying a mouth
filled with blackened teeth.  He seems to be feeding off of your fear,
hungrily drinking it as if it were an elixir from the fabled Fountain of Youth
on Denab.  You recoil as best as you can, pulling yourself into an adaptation
of the fetal position as your arms still remain bound together at the bed
post.
      You can feel him looming over you, coldness pouring forth from his body
instead of the familiar warmth of another's flesh.  He reaches for the
comforter and sheets, gripping them in his black-gloved hands and in one solid
whisk of his arms, rips all the layers of covers from you.  Your heart is
pounding so hard and you feel as if your trachea will close up as you begin to
wheeze with fear.  Your body is cold, even colder than when the demon had
entered; you shiver from the cold and your anxiety.   "Please, I'm cold," you
beg, but he seems not to heed nor have heard your words as he removes a
vibroblade from the confines of his black garb.  As his gloved finger falls
over the switch, the weapon hums and comes to life.  You close your eyes; you
can't bear to watch.


Part 5

      The humming of the weapon almost maddens you; it is as if you have been
locked within a broom closet filled with thousands of wasps.  Your eyes are so
tightly squeezed shut that tears begin to stream down your cheek as you feel
him rolling up the thin, nightgown you are wearing.  You then hear the humming
coming closer and closer toward your lower body.  The blade makes contact with
your Mons Veneris.  The demon is shearing you of your tufts of pubic hair in
short, broad strokes.  Yet, he is being surprisingly careful with the blade so
that he does not tear into your tender skin. You are still too afraid to open
your eyes, thinking that at any given moment he could turn the weapon to more
painful uses. Your body is still quite tense, although you are beginning to
find the vibration of the knife against your mound to be not an unpleasant
feeling. 
      The demon seems to have noticed your reaction and grins, exposing his fierce
teeth.  He turns the blade onto its blunt side, placing it against your shaved
flesh so that it functions much in the same manner as an external vibrator.
Your eyes fly open as you are met with such a stimulating feeling.  Your eyes
fall upon his black-gloved hand holding the blade over your lower region,
completely devoid of any hair like a pre-pubescent girl, the silver of the
knife shimmering as the light catches it.
      "Relax," the demon commands, speaking his first words to you, his voice like
a forbidden pleasure; sweet like honey, yet almost having a hallucinogenic
quality as if you had taken spice.   Your body does not resist, the tension
slowly melting away as short, shallow gasps escape from your lips, savoring
the sensation of the delightful vibrations.  You have almost forgotten your
initial fear of the demon, as his presence is bringing you far more pleasure
than pain at the moment. 
      The hum of the vibroblade ceases as the demon flicks the knife off and
removes it from your mound.  Your lips twist into a pout instinctively, as you
have become accustomed to its stimulating rubbing and buzzing.  The weapon has
disappeared from your line of vision, yet you still remain relatively relaxed,
even as the demon begins to run his black-gloved fingers through your hair.
What has gotten into you? You cannot believe that your better judgement has
turned to goo all because of a little sexual gratification. 
      "Yes, you liked that, didn't you?" The demon purrs, his fingers slipping down
from your hair, across your chin, and running lightly along your jawline.  The
leather of his gloves is soft, well-broken in and worn so that his touch is
almost as smooth as his very voice.  "Don't you fret, my dear.  I have much
more in store for you.  Much more."