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Chapter Text

Three Months Later

“Focus! If I am using Shii-Cho, you will switch to…?”

Grievous said nothing, but lunged forward with a precise thrust, relegating his offhand lightsaber to minimal involvement while mostly focusing on breaking through Dooku’s defense with swift, sharp attacks.

“Makashi, yes—if you can call that mutilation of the form Makashi at all—”

With a muted growl, Grievous swapped forms instantly, bringing his other saber into play and attacking Dooku aggressively and with more athleticism. He pressed the offensive with twirling grace tempered by a calculated, mechanical rhythm that no organically-bound creature could achieve, and, shifting his weight impossibly to one of his strong durasteel arms, he passed his right lightsaber to one taloned foot and lashed out, swiveling in a full revolution at the waist.

“Creative, Grievous,” Dooku commented, parrying the unique attack with ease, “but hardly proper Juyo. All I have to do is—”

But Grievous again switched forms, swinging and bashing at the red beam of plasma with all of his amplified might. He locked sabers with the Count—whose eyebrows lifted a fraction higher than their usual neutral angle—using enough power in a single arm that the human was forced to hold his weapon with both hands, sinking slightly under the cyborg’s strength. Holding those dark, mildly disconcerted eyes with a molten glare, Grievous swung his second lightsaber. 

In an instant, Dooku freed one hand and whipped it through the air in an arc, palm out. The Force caught Grievous’ exoskeleton like a great hand seizing his shoulder and yanking him bodily sideways, clear off his feet, vaulting him through the air. Too startled to break his fall, Grievous tumbled mask over claws, lightsabers fizzing out as they clattered across the gleaming floor.

Coughing from the impact, Grievous scrambled to right himself, leveling a furious, accusing stare up at Dooku. “You would dare use the Force in our duel?!”

“I had to defend myself,” said Dooku calmly. “Your clumsy Djem So was too powerful for me to counter. What did you expect me to do?”

The cyborg lurched to his feet. “I expect you to fight me with honor! I can do nothing with your Force—cannot see it, cannot block it. A skilled warrior should not have to resort to cheating!”

Dooku laughed, a scornful scoff. “You speak of honor? What do you know about honor?”

“I am Qymaen jai Sahuldeem, the greatest warrior in Kaleesh history,” was the snarled response, his name tumbling from his vocabulator without hesitation. “I did not achieve greatness by stooping to cheap tricks. I earned my greatness as a powerful leader. I was Chieftain—Khan—Khagan!”

Dooku’s expression darkened at this distasteful display. It was not the first time he’d observed the issue of insubordination, defiance and an excess of individuality, and he was less amused by it every time it resurfaced. He spoke firmly, not yet drawing on the Force to aid him, meeting his apprentice’s glare with well-bred authority. “You’re losing your focus, Grievous. Concentrate on what is happening now. Your training. Our duel.”

“All I am losing is my patience,” seethed the cyborg. “And you will lose more than that if you do not treat me with the respect I deserve.”

The threat hung in the air between them, poised, a breath drawn and held in spiteful lungs.

A breath too far, thought Dooku, but he maintained his cool facade and carried on with his lesson. He would, at least, finish this lesson. Seemingly ignoring Grievous’ words, he gestured to the ground. “Pick up your weapons.”

“You will fight me honorably, Count.”

“I will do nothing if you do not pick up your lightsabers.”

Grievous growled and reached for the hilts, and Dooku threw forward another Force push before he could touch them. The blast propelled Grievous backward again, but this time his massive talons dug into the metal floor and skidded him without toppling, gouging rents in his wake.

Dooku’s cold voice brooked no quarter. “Pick. Them. Up.”

“You won’t let me!”

“Your enemies grant you no such allowances. Why should I?” He punctuated this question with another concussive thrust of the Force.

This time, however, Grievous anticipated the attack and dodged to the side, sensors barely registering the shift in air pressure as it passed him by like a gust of wind. In the same movement, he somersaulted over his dropped weapons, snatching them up and bringing them to bear, brilliant and humming, crossed against Dooku’s red blade.

A ghost of a smile curled the former Jedi’s lips. “There. That was rather impressive.”

“Of course it was!” Grievous snapped, then paused. As surprised and suspicious as he was to hear praise, of all things, he did not disengage. He held his pose, glaring. “But I only knew what you were going to do because you had already done it. I cannot always dodge these attacks.”

“No,” agreed Dooku, “you cannot. You are going to have to be resourceful, Grievous. Resourceful, and yes, sometimes you will have to resort to dishonorable acts to gain the upper hand.” He turned off his lightsaber, and, after a beat, Grievous warily followed suit, retreating a pace. “The Jedi do not see the Force as a ‘cheap trick’ to be pulled out of their sleeves; it is a weapon in their arsenal that they will employ against their enemies—and we already know the Jedi perceive you as an enemy.”

The cyborg’s rage bubbled to the surface, as intended, but lacked the explosive intensity the Count hoped for. “Jedi filth. I will do whatever it takes to defeat them.”

“Then remember this, my pupil: for a Jedi to call upon the Force takes concentration, balance and control. Break their concentration. Throw them off balance. Control the fight. This will grant you the advantage in a duel, and deny them the opportunity to use the Force against you.”

“And if they still find the opportunity? What then?”

“Retreat, if you must.”

Grievous huffed. “I am not a coward.”

Dooku lifted his voice, stern. “It is not brave, but foolhardy to remain engaged with an enemy who can defeat you. A strategic withdrawal is sometimes necessary to reassess your situation. Do not make the mistake of thinking yourself invincible in that artificial body of yours. Limbs can be replaced, but you can still be destroyed.”

“It would be much simpler if I could use the Force myself,” said Grievous petulantly. “I could kill so many Jedi that way. I’d be unstoppable with such power.” He lifted his hand in a halfhearted gesture, a vague mimicking of the movements he’d observed Jedi making when they manipulated the mysterious, maddening Force of theirs. When of course nothing happened, his metal digits rasped into a fist and clanked down at his side, defeated and frustrated. “Why is it beyond my grasp?”

“I had hoped it wouldn’t be,” said Dooku with a disappointed sigh. “When you were first operated upon, you were given a transfusion—blood preserved from the late Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas—with the intention of increasing your Midi-chlorian count. Had this procedure been successful, you would have developed Force-sensitivity.”

Grievous blinked in confusion, trying to process a handful of unfamiliar terms, but once he pieced Dooku’s words together a wave of revulsion washed over him. “A Jedi?” he choked out. “You put Jedi blood, in my body? What…how… Why didn’t I know about this?!”

Dooku barely twitched his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Though the operation may have saved your life, it did not grant you access to the Force. Such a pity. There is only so much you can be taught even of lightsaber combat when you are not Force-sensitive. Fortunately, the cybernetics you’ve been equipped with give you an edge over—”

He broke off and fell into disdainful silence when Grievous flung his lightsaber hilts to the ground with a bellow, not unlike a child throwing a tantrum. “I did not agree to have my body fouled by the blood of my enemy!”

“You agreed to the procedure, Grievous.”

With a harsh, bitter laugh, Grievous gestured to himself. “There is already so little left of me in this body—and now you are telling me there is even less than I thought? Who am I, if not what remains? If what is there isn’t all of what once was myself, then what…what does that even make me?”

Dooku eyes narrowed, irises warming as he gathered the Force around him like a shadowy cloak. He’d had quite enough of this creature’s existential angst. “I see a glorified battle droid,” he declared, oozing contempt.

Though his head had not pained him as of late, something indescribable now cracked, white-hot fissures erupting from core to extremities under the pressure of his rage. With a rattling roar, Grievous began to leap forward, lightsabers forgotten, with every intention of attacking the Count with his bare claws. 

He didn’t make it far.

Vivid blue electricity streaked from Count Dooku’s fingertips to swallow Grievous’ body. It was only a single blast of Force lightning: powerful enough to fling the cyborg off his feet and sprawl him to the floor, but the current was not maintained or repeated. In an instant, it was over. Dooku lowered his hand, glaring down at the ground, where Grievous clutched at his chest plates and wheezed. Thanks to the augmented electro-proofing he’d received after the electrostaff incident months earlier, his systems were not as disrupted as they could have been, but still he lay stunned, struggling to breathe normally.

“Do not dream of approaching me like that again.”

Grievous tested his creaking limbs before clambering to his feet, the slightest tremor at his knees and heels betraying the lasting shock to his motor functions. He glowered at Dooku, panting deep in his chest, before his vocabulator grated out, “I—suppose—you would instruct me—to retreat.”

And, after a minute of icy silence, he turned and did just that, abandoning his lesson, hyperconscious of the Count’s dark eyes boring into his back before the blast door slammed shut behind him.

So. There it is, mused Dooku to himself. The last, proverbial straw.

He had put it off for far too long; ignored the warning signs, extended more patience than he could afford. 

It was finally time to settle this troublesome matter.

—

Grievous sat quietly on the operating table, enduring a round of routine maintenance that saw him attached by numerous tubes, cables and wires to the crowd of machinery surrounding him. He picked at one or two nodes like scabs, as much bored as he was lost in dark thoughts.

Dr. Zorryx, having grown more sensitive to his patient’s nuanced moods, immediately discerned that something had happened during the cyborg’s training session to upset him, but the evidence of multiple systems disruptions encouraged him to investigate that avenue, instead. “Did you train with an electrostaff today?” he inquired, mild and conversational.

Grievous tensed. His eyes darted to Zorryx, then averted. “No.”

Amazing how expressive the cyborg could be without a face to read. If Grievous didn’t want to talk about it, however, he wouldn’t press the matter. “Well, whatever happened, it certainly looks like you sustained some electrical damage. Nothing major, at any rate. The worst of it seems to be the radiocarpal rotation in your left primary wrist. It’s off by several degrees. Easily resolved.”

Grievous halfheartedly flexed the joint in question, a puff of air passing audibly over his synthetic vocal cords in a disgruntled sigh. “I hope so, doctor. I cannot afford to mishandle my weapons.”

“When your weapons are superheated plasma blades, yes, I can imagine. Hold still.”

“If only the Count trusted me enough to let me keep them between our training sessions,” Grievous muttered. “Then I could practice with them on my own.”

“Not in here, you wouldn’t,” countered Zorryx with deliberate levity. “I prefer my limbs attached.”

This prompted a reflexive grunt, not quite a chuckle, but conveying clear amusement. “Just don’t stand near my left arm, apparently.”

Zorryx’s own humor fell away when he belatedly realized what Grievous had said, his good mood plunging as quickly as his stomach. “Ah, what? Hold on. What makes you believe Count Dooku doesn’t trust you?”

“Because I think he can tell that I do not trust him.” 

Zorryx looked up from Grievous’ wrist and met the cyborg’s shrewd gaze, nerves jangling. This was new. This was dangerous. But before he could express any misgivings, Grievous continued, golden eyes narrowing and holding the doctor in contemplation. 

“Nor do I trust you.”

Certainly not what the scientist wanted to hear from a powerful, sometimes volatile cyborg when he was arm-deep in carrying out his maintenance, their proximity as close as it ever was. Zorryx froze, fingers pinching tight the instrument he’d been using to pry delicately at wired ligaments. “This…is news to me,” he stated, driving the fear from his voice in a bid for composure.

“You carry out Count Dooku’s instructions.” Grievous’ voice was shockingly even. “If he tells you to, for instance, flood this shell of mine with foreign blood until there is more Jedi than Kaleesh inside me, then you have no choice but to obey him, yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I understand. It means I can never fully trust you, but I do understand. The Count is obviously not a man to be crossed.”

Zorryx thought of the modifications he had walked back, the painful dampening he had decreased, the agency he had restored. All of it allowed this conversation to even occur. “Well, I would risk it if I thought I could improve your functioning,” he said, choosing his words carefully but not without a hint of self-defense.

Grievous met this with a slow blink. “You would defy Dooku’s to help me?”

“That’s not what I said,” countered Zorryx in a hurry.

But Grievous canted his head. “Now I see why he doesn’t trust you, either.”

His heart raced. This was getting out of hand. “What?”

“I know he doesn’t allow you to see or record our lightsaber training sessions. He told me it was because matters of the Force don’t concern you, a man of science, but I don’t believe a word of that. Do you?”

Kriff. He oughtn’t encourage this line of thinking, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Then why do you think he won’t let me record your sessions? He’s never offered a satisfactory explanation, even after I’ve expressed to him more than once the sheer value such data would provide for this project.”

“He’s hiding something,” said Grievous decisively. “Not about my training. About himself.”

“Such as?”

Grievous met this question with one of his own. “What do you know about the Jedi?”

Frankly, Zorryx considered, he hadn’t given the Jedi much thought at all before his involvement with this project. “Very little. I know of their mind tricks and their weapons. I know of their midi-chlorians. And I know they wronged you.”

“Do you know what the colors of their lightsabers represent?”

“The colors?” Zorryx repeated, puzzled.

Grievous’ gaze fell out of focus as he cast his mind back, fishing for old memories that no longer pained him as they should. “I’ve seen many Jedi, fighting all at once, using lightsabers. I…I think I saw only blue blades and green blades. Nothing else. They did not seem to reflect rank or how much power they wielded; both Masters and Knights used those same colors.” He paused for a wet, productive cough, loosening the unpleasant thickness that had progressively clogged his airways over the course of his eventful day. “The Count’s lightsaber is different. I don’t know if it’s because he is no longer a Jedi, himself. But I have never seen a weapon like it before.” Even as he said it, he realized it wasn’t quite true; the former Jedi possessed two such blades, even though he clearly favored one over the other. But the fact remained that they both, as far as he knew, belonged to the Count.

“You’re saying his lightsaber is an unusual color? That’s what he’s troubling himself to hide?”

Grievous hesitated. Voicing it now, he felt foolish believing something as inconsequential as a color could merit such suspicions. Yet it was more than the color, wasn’t it? He may not have been able to touch the Force as a Jedi could—his heart stirred angrily in its cold prison, warming with blood he’d just learned wasn’t all his own—and Dooku had explained this would prevent him from ever fully mastering lightsaber combat…but despite this proclaimed disconnect, the Count’s lightsaber felt nothing like his training weapons, nor like the lightsabers he’d encountered in the past. Its discordant resonance buzzed in his skull whenever they crossed blades, curdling his hard-won confidence while drawing all his focus with magnetic vehemence, flirting with his fascination, daring him to disarm his tutor in the worst way and take its curved hilt into his grasp and send it screaming into everyone who had ever opposed him.

The crimson blade felt more alive than he did, in a way.

And, to be fair, how could he explain that to Zorryx? Less a matter of the elusive, ethereal Force, more a disinclination to drag the scientist into the center of what he was deliberately being excluded from, putting him at possible risk, and Grievous would prefer to keep his doctor out of trouble if he could help it. Zorryx was…useful didn’t fully capture it, but it was a start. Beneficial. Supportive. At times, even a comforting presence. Perhaps not fully trustworthy, yet much more so than Dooku. A strange twist of irony, putting his faith in a bug.

Strange to trust anyone on this planet, really, after all that had happened...

His head twinged, gently protesting crystallizing clarity.

When it comes down to it, the only person you should trust is yourself.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, and well before he composed a response to the doctor’s question, the door slid open, startling the occupants of the chamber. Visitors were unprecedented during maintenance.

Two IG-100 droids stepped inside, no longer the prototypes with which Grievous had become familiar years earlier, but newer models: MagnaGuards, he had heard them referred to more recently, visibly improved in their design, movements fluid and oddly natural as they stepped aside to allow their master entry.

Zorryx whipped around and fell into a jerky bow. “Count Dooku! What…what a surprise! To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Grievous, on the other hand, went still and quiet, the only motion evident in his uncomfortable gaze as it shifted from the lightsaber hilt at Dooku’s belt to the silent MagnaGuards at the doorway. He said nothing, though wariness steeled his nerves and readied his guard. Dooku had already damaged him today. He wasn’t keen to relive that experience.

“Dr. Zorryx. Grievous,” acknowledged the Count calmly. He moved forward and the droids fell into step behind him, fanning out and posting themselves at either end of Grievous’ operating table. Dooku centered himself before the table, halting and resting his hands behind his waist. A slight incline of his head tipped his attention in the doctor’s favor. “Is everything operational at the moment?”

Zorryx brought the tablet back before his face with haste. “Yes, sir. Just finishing up a minor repair. All systems functioning at 97.9 percent.”

“Very good.” Fingers flicked, a careless, understated gesture. “Sedate him.”

A beat of uncomprehending silence followed. Grievous, certain he’d misheard, nevertheless stiffened, claws clamping the sides of the table he sat upon, while Zorryx found his voice first. “I—I’m sorry, you wish to sedate him? For what purpose?” he stalled, mind racing to keep up with this unexpected—and alarming—order.

Dooku immediately turned to the Ubrikkian droid looming behind the table, which had until that moment been idling, waiting for instructions from Zorryx. “Sedate the subject.”

Grievous’ searching eyes finally found Dooku’s, both locking on one another with a jolt of understanding: one, his paranoia and mistrust vindicated, the other confirming there could be no other recourse.

In the same moment that Grievous began to lift his weight, preparing to spring into action, the two MagnaGuards seized his arms and manhandled the struggling cyborg, slamming his spine into the rotating table amid agitated protests from Dr. Zorryx. His furious shouts degenerated into slurred syllables as the medical droid obediently slipped a syringe into the ready-attached gutsack IV tube, and soon his limp duranium head clanked against waiting metal. Zorryx pushed his way past the pair of droids, anxiously reviewing his tablet and several readouts on the monitoring equipment, as well as passing his quick, inquiring fingers over the cyborg’s faceplate and skull to check for tangible damage. At length, he put a hand to his chest, bracing a sigh of relief.

Dooku hadn’t moved, unflinching in the face of the cyborg’s neutralization. “All is well, I trust?”

Zorryx was more upset with Dooku than he could safely express, but frustration still sharpened his words. “Was there a reason for the urgency, sir? Or might we have achieved the same results without undue stress on my patient?”

The Count frowned, then lifted his fist. Zorryx lifted with it, hands scrambling to his throat in a panic. “I am here to express my disappointment with you and your work, Dr. Zorryx,” he said coldly. “I therefore suggest you mind your tone.”

“P-please!” The Geonosian’s translated voice pinched and warbled as he strained to articulate through the mechanism. “What…what have I done…?!”

“It is not what you’ve done, but what you have failed to do.” Dooku unclenched his hand and watched the scientist drop into a wheezing hunch. “You were instructed to make modifications to the subject’s mind.”

“But—I—I did as you asked!” Zorryx was not thinking especially clearly through the static of panic, but he knew what he said wasn’t a complete lie. He had done as he was told; he’d then undone it.

“The specifications you were given have not been sufficiently met. I’ve spent enough time with him now to see that it is more than an occasional lapse. There are too many remnants of his old life bleeding into his sense of self, and that individuality feeds his insubordination, insolence and unpredictability. He nearly attacked me today. He is untrainable in this state; the beast must be brought to heel.” His stare hardened. “You are to remove any part of him that would interfere with his primary purpose.”

“Sir…” Zorryx shrank back from the Count’s poisonous glare. He was loath to argue, but he needed to at least try to defend his perspective. “I-I must inform you that if…if I tamper with his cerebral implants to such an extent, there could be more damage.”

Bushy eyebrows contracted, pulling tight. “‘More’?”

“His mind has already been pushed beyond organic limits. A living brain is more complex than any droid’s central processing unit, no matter how advanced—and it is far more delicate. When you first came to Geonosis to assess him, there was a problem with one of his implants, and the only way to prevent irreversible brain damage was to decrease the implant’s activity. Which,” he finished apprehensively, “I did.”

“You deliberately undid your own work?” His tone was low, soft, and vastly more threatening than moments earlier.

“It was not undone!” Zorryx said, plaintive. “Only reduced. It—it seemed to me that a stronger sense of self-awareness a-and grasp of his own identity was worth avoiding the risk of losing what made him valuable to begin with. What use would he be to you if he forgot everything?”

Dooku’s lip curled. “While it is true that the creature would be useless without recollection of his military experience and expertise, that was quite a bold decision for you to have made without external consultation. If you find you struggle to follow orders, Dr. Zorryx, there must be another Geonosian scientist with your skill set who is willing to take over the project.” Up came the hand again, poised threateningly.

Zorryx shrank back, guarding his throat. “No, please! I-I can make it work! I’ll find a way.”

“I hope you are not making a promise you cannot keep. What went wrong with this implant before, and how do you intend to work around the issue?”

“Well, it’s the implant that regulates his medial temporal lobe—”

“—To suppress unnecessary and counterproductive memories,” Dooku interrupted. “Yes, I recall. And?”

Zorryx was taken aback to hear his own words parroted back at him, and with such accuracy. He hadn’t imagined the Count would retain his words so easily, never mind recall it months later. “Erm. The dampening parameters were such that it took very little for him to trigger the implant, and consistent use was causing it to overheat. Additionally, I have no doubt the cause of much of its overreaction was that his mind resisted the suppression, painfully so. I have been researching alternatives,” he insisted (another white lie; he had, briefly, before settling into complacency, lulled both by Dooku’s silence on the matter and by Grievous’ improved mood). “One consideration was to try and implement the theory of response expectancy again, but I’m not certain how.”

“Explain this theory, doctor.”

Was this the cost of his transgression? Being grilled on his practices? Better than being executed, he thought a bit giddily before replying. “Essentially, when the subject has an expectation of reacting in a particular way to a situation or stimulus. The success of Grievous’ reconstruction hinged on whether he expected to recover from the experience; if we had simply forced it upon him without explanation or consent, there was a very strong probability that he wouldn’t have survived more than a day or two. His own belief in survival and improvement helped stabilize himself. It’s not dissimilar to how a placebo works.” Zorryx noticed the Count nodding; at least he wouldn’t have to define that. He concluded, “So, as you can imagine, it’s difficult to apply this theory to memory recall.”

Dooku was quiet, eyes pensive. “Are you saying we need him to willingly reject his own memories? To believe he’d be better off doing so?”

“Possibly, yes. That would help the implant function without resistance. But to instill such a belief would require cerebral conditioning to an extent I’m not sure exists.”

The Count did an unexpected thing, then, and stepped forward. Dr. Zorryx moved aside on reflex, but Dooku’s outstretched fingers landed on the cyborg’s faceplate. “What if I told you I may be of assistance in this endeavor?”

Zorryx eyed the human’s hand uncertainly. “With, ah, your Force, I take it?”

“Indeed.” Dooku studied the lines carved in the ceramaplast, tracing one with his fingernail. “A technique not often used, given its severity—drawing one’s worst memories to the surface of the mind to be relived, again and again.” As if sensing the doctor’s instant revulsion, he lifted his eyes, daring Zorryx to challenge him. “That should aid in conditioning his mind, should it not?”

Zorryx felt ill. “Y-yes, sir.”

“That solves one problem. Now,  how much control do you have over his personality?”

“Adjustments can be made,” said the Geonosian with no enthusiasm to speak of. “The implants can influence his emotions and his drives. We can work with what is already there, but we can’t necessarily create anything new.”

“Can you reduce his sense of honor? It was his ruthless reputation that brought him to our attention in the first place. I have no use for conscientious quibbles. I need merciless action.”

“It…it can be done.”

“And what about subservience? Can you ensure he will follow my orders? Though perhaps,” said Dooku with frigid derision, “I am asking the wrong person.”

Zorryx flinched, wings juddering and fingers tightening around his datapad. He briefly reflected on his options—claim ignorance and suffer the consequences, or speak true and watch his patient suffer the consequences—and reluctantly made his decision. “I have an idea in mind: a supplementary neural network, no more than a design in early stages of development, but implementation is achievable…with additional funding, and perhaps with your assistance, sir.”

An eyebrow raised. “What would you need of me?”

“Your voice. A recording is sufficient, preferably with the inclusion of his name and a generic instruction. That’s all.”

Dooku inclined his head with regal acceptance. “Then I will provide a recording promptly, and speak with Chairman Hill about his investment. Very good, doctor. It sounds as if you have this matter well in hand, at last.” He gestured to his droids, who moved once more to flank him. “Please do not disappoint me again. I’m sure you understand there will not be another opportunity for failure after this one.”

Zorryx bowed low, swallowing fear and self-loathing. No. Guilt is unbecoming. He’s given you no choice. “Yes, Count Dooku,” he mumbled.

Once the Count and his entourage had left the chamber, Zorryx drooped, leaning into the operating table and holding his head in his hands for several minutes.

No choice, he reminded himself. No guilt.

And yet he couldn’t seem to feel any better about what he must do.

One hand freed itself from cupping his face and found Grievous’ chest plates. A meaningless gesture, pointless and sentimental. He did it anyway.

“I’m…truly sorry about this.”

—

Recording initiated on 11:10:3, 14:28 GST

Administrator: DR. ZORRYX
Subject: GRIEVOUS