Crazy Bastard Wants to Hit Me

[Darth Osano]

ARIS
GOLBRUG'S FIGHTING PITS

[member="Blackthorne"]

Fighting pits.

A lot of people didn't see the appeal in these sorts of places, but Maleagant understood it perfectly. Gambling and violence. What more could anyone want? If gambling was a high of its own, then gambling on two people fighting to the near-death was something else entirely. These were the kind of dens of inequity that attracted important people in the underworld. That was why he wanted a few of his own. Starting up a fighting pit from scratch was a difficult endeavor to say the least. It required a lot of money and a lot of networking. Given enough time, Maleagant could acquire enough of both... Or he could seize control of a preexisting fighting pit that everyone already knew about.

Aris was a nice, populated world; the capitol of the Albarrio Sector. It had its own decadent criminal underbelly that Maleagant and his merry men were dying to sink their teeth into. They would start with Aris, specifically the fighting pits of Golbrug Jones. One of the more frequented fighting pits in the Alignment, Golbrug had managed to keep his dire financial situation a secret. An easy thing to do when there were so many guests, so frequently, and so much cash flowing out. Golbrug just wasn't retaining anything of value like he used to. A secret like that couldn't be kept from Maleagant. Not for very long.

When the doors to the establishment were blown open one morning, about fifteen hours before the place would open, by four Helix Syndicate Specialists, the demoralized and bribed guards that made up Golbrug's security fled. Except one. Maleagant caught him by the shoulder before he could file out. "Golbrug has fled already?"

He nodded, dumbly. Maleagant sighed.

"Are there any gladiators still here?"

"Uh, just one."

Perhaps he should have suspected Golbrug would just up and run. And when the man running the pits fled, so too did the gladiators. What were Golbrug's mooks still doing hanging around, then? Maleagant happened to look down and noticed silverware poking out from his pockets. Classy. Maleagant shoved him back into the building. "Bring him to me."

"Her."

"Go."

 

[Blackthorne]

"What do you mean he's gone?"

...

"What do you mean the fights are off?"

...

She wasn't the prize Gladiator. She wasn't the one in the big fight rings. She was the one who showed up every so often for the Match Fights and put on a good, bloody show. Sometimes she won, but many times she didn't. The thing that drew the crowds was not her muscle mass or her dervish abilities; for all intents and purposes it was simply the girl's ability to get up after almost every hit.

Almost every time.

The door to the room would have slammed open in a dramatic entrance of Dahldesa Shamalain but someone had beaten her to it with explosives. A meaningful kick of a piece of shrapnel sent a wood chunk sailing through the air to very narrowly miss spearing [member="Maleagant"] through the ear.

"Who the feth are you?"

 

[Darth Osano]

She was so charming.

No wonder Golbrug left her.

Maleagant gently rubbed the lobe of his ear that had nearly been grazed by the shrapnel. Already the Specialists were training their weapons, but they lowered them at the behest of a silent command. He sized [member="Blackthorne"] up, guessing her age was somewhere between "not close enough to twenty" and "what is this small child doing outside of a secondary school." Who was this? Golbrug's bastard daughter? Didn't seem likely. Golbrug Jones was something of a slob. And a Gamorrean. The two went hand in hand and tended to be detrimental to his odds of mating with anyone outside of his species. If this wasn't an abused daughter, then where had all of those bruises come from? The gladiator pits?

If that were true, this would be priceless.

"The new proprietor." Maleagant answered flatly, face kept carefully neutral. He looked around the empty establishment. Picked clean. The cage sat empty, some of the benches were overturned. This whole place could do with some expansion, maybe a second bar and a proper kitchen. An electronic scoreboard would do some good. More locker rooms for the gladiators. Gladiator, presently. "Who are you?"

 

[Blackthorne]

"Blackthorne," the girl replied, eyeballing the man and his retinue of guards, "Match Fighter, on occasion ..." green gaze flew sharply around the ruined hall. Not that it looked a whole heck of a lot different from before. Mostly it was just emptier - this place had always been a dump. She might've liked to watch it burn if it would have earned her some credits to light the fire.

"Or I was. Guess I'll be looking for a new arena now."

[member="Maleagant"]

 

[Darth Osano]

Maleagant raised an eyebrow. "You could, but you'll only find me again later." The humanoid gestured, and the Specialists moved past them, heading into the various rooms to ensure they were cleared. Anyone lingering would be escorted out, or shot if they decided to persist. You had to be flexible about these sort of things. "I am closing in on this industry. Starting here." Maleagant was a man of lofty aspirations. If he had his way, all the best arenas in the Alignment would soon have the Syndicate's name on them. The others could pick at the scraps of what was left, including [member="Blackthorne"] if that was what she opted to do. There was, of course, another option.

New management and a new look would make most of the regulars suspicious. What this place really needed, in addition to all the refurbishments, was a familiar face. If this one was a match fighter, as she claimed, she had to be at least a little known. How many other small girls were out here punching people? Very few. The Pentastar Alignment was among the more civilized clusters in the galaxy, thankfully. More prosperous. Prosperity typically translated into less child-soldiers per square mile.

"I suggest you stay."

There was weight in those words, sounding more persuasive than they had any business being. Maleagant might have just tried to compel her opinion to be in line with his through the Force, but it could have been clear he was no more trained in it than a particularly stupid Bantha might have been.

 

[Blackthorne]

The technical side of business wasn't really her niche and if the scowl on her face made her look dumb on the subject of economic monopolies and the people behind them then Blackthorne was guilty as charged. However, if there was one thing she did understand, or at least felt a cold sense of passion towards, it was reigning in control.

Match fights were a long ways away from building an empire on a savage planet filled with equally savage people, but everyone had to start somewhere. Quite frankly, Dahl and her brother were at the bottom of the barrel with nowhere to go but up, or so they liked to believe. If the black handprint on her left forearm was any indication to the depths she was willing --and perhaps not so willing-- to go for these grand delusions, well.

A stripey upstart for a secondary wasn't really the worst option here.

"Alright Stripes," the girl said as she stepped over towards the man, cinching her fingers together and pushing them outwards in a chorus of cracked knuckles, "hit me."

Blackthorne squared herself in front of him a very educated guesstimate distance of his arm reach away, fists balled at either side.

[member="Maleagant"]

 

[Darth Osano]

Stripes? Disdain flashed in his eyes, but Maleagant said nothing, perhaps too preoccupied with the suddenly aggressive stance and violent choice of phrase. Had she noticed something? Maleagant shouldn't have been too surprised, pretender that he was. He would have thought it would at least work on children. Whatever. One of the bonuses of owning a criminal syndicate was that Maleagant could afford to be generous when less overt methods of persuasion seemed to fail. "55% of the profits from bets placed on you. Yours to keep." Not a deal extended Maleagant extended to a second-stringer lightly, nor one anyone else would be extending.

He must have really needed a familiar face in here.

The humanoid folded his arms, red eyes never leaving [member="Blackthorne"]. "Unless you'd rather try your luck elsewhere."

 

[Blackthorne]

The sour look of aggression was briefly interrupted by a moment of clear consideration.

"That's a pretty good deal," Dahl nodded to herself with a faint shrug, then nodded to Stripes.

And then she hauled off and hit him, or at the very least attempted to. And what an attempt it was. One small but mighty calloused and bruised fist packing a load of strength and speed she aught not have heading straight for his face. Sort of like a compacted bullet train. Zippy.

"HIT ME!"

 

[Darth Osano]

Being punched in the face was never an enlightening or fully enjoyable experience. One moment, the [member="Blackthorne"] was nodding along in barely registered agreement. The next, stars were exploding across Maleagant's field of vision and he found himself stumbling backwards into the wall closest to the door-frame. It wasn't a pretty sight, spit had been evicted from his mouth and blood from his nose. His eyes lost their focus momentarily as the pain began to register. She punched him. His first gladiator had punched him. This was not how it was supposed to be.

"Ow." Maleagant was dazed, but not so dazed that he was not already infuriated and incited to seek vengeance. Something slid out from his sleeve and into his waiting hand, a small cylinder that immediately extended. It was a stun baton, unique to the Guavian Death Gang. Electricity cackled from the head of it. Maleagant would have flipped it to its highest setting if he thought he had the time. "Fine."

This Acolyte did not strike first, but he would strike last. He swung in a wide arc, ostensibly for her head but in a downward motion. It didn't matter to him where he hit her, the electricity would do the rest.

 

[Blackthorne]

Baton connected with shoulder in an electric crunch successfully eliciting a garbled sort of yelp from the girl who dropped to the floor like a sack of bruised potatoes. There she lay in a heap, twitching and groaning. Smoke rose from where the baton made contact with leather - the acrid stench of burnt hair slowly filtering upwards.

"Hhnnnnnn-" said Blackthorne into the floor, "hhhhhhhhhuhhh."

Another twitch. Hands stiffly planted themselves beneath her.

"Fffffuuuuuuuuuh-"

A grunt as she pushed herself up, but not quite all the way.

She began to chuckle, "...again."

 

[Darth Osano]

With his free hand, Maleagant pinched his nose to make sure it wasn't completely broken. Not that it mattered. He was in a unique position to repair that kind of superficial damage thanks to his genetics. Maleagant scowled at her as she attempted to push herself to her feet. Was it impressive that she was still moving after that? Maybe. He couldn't remember what setting he had left it on. So much had been happening that necessitated the use of a stun baton. He couldn't recall what he had did last- the raid on that nursing home or the raid on the Wookie trade caravan. Both needed vastly different levels of stun.

He supposed either way it was a novelty. His scowl only deepend when she chortled and demanded to be hit again. "Don't make it weird." Masochism was for Zambranos.

Maleagant took one step forward before pulling one foot back and throwing a kick towards [member="Blackthorne"] in the face. A motion that would doubtlessly repeat against alternating targets until she was rendered unconscious.

 

[Blackthorne]

Stars exploded in her vision and, undoubtedly, [member="Maleagant"] might feel as though he'd just made the game-winning kick with a soccer ball made of concrete. By the time Dahl's head stopped spinning she was sputtering blood with her back against the floor. Another kick to the gut resulted in a bark of laughter.

Blackthorne rolled away from the reach of his foot and stumbled with severe gracelessness back to her own feet wiping blood-slicked lengths of black hair from her face.

"...okay," green eyes with wide irises rolled up right before a full-body tackle sent them into a betting desk. By this point his retinue had most certainly become alerted to the scuffle and before any real damage could be done Dahl felt hands attempting to pull her off. Her own hands found purchase on his jacket and refused to let go.

"Sixty percent," she snarled at him, blood splattering from her nose and mouth.

 

[Darth Osano]

Maleagant was both surprised and frustrated to find her still capable of standing up. What was she? Duracrete? For a brief moment her posture told him that she was finished trying to beat him up, then suddenly she was launching at him full speed again. The Acolyte yelled something foul in a dead language and then grunted in pain after he impacted a betting table back-first. Some people just couldn't take a hint. Fortunately the ruckus managed to attract the attention of his prized, painstakingly developed Specialists. Three of them returned, two wordlessly grabbing her by each arm and attempting to pry her off. A stun baton extended with a familiar snapping sound in the hands of the third.

The fourth just then walked out of the locker room, also holding a stun baton, while [member="Blackthorne"] was snarling demands. Maleagant tasted blood and was disgusted to find himself unsure of whose it was. "You're down to forty percent." He grunted back, amidst the struggle of the Specialists attempting to pry her off. "Let go now and you keep your eyes."

Oh, the folly of pride.

 

[Blackthorne]

"Rrrrreeehehehehe-"

Hands permaclamped on the man's jacket, Blackthorne pulled against the might of the two guards attempting to pry her off. There was a great deal of difficulty here and it wasn't really apparent who was having the harder time; one girl against two guards or the other way 'round.

Green eyes snapped to the sound of sizzling off to her right before rounding back on [member="Maleagant"] with an accompanied grin. He'd feel the surge of energy in the room but it wasn't coming from the stun batons. Seconds later a Force Wave threw both guards off their feet and across the room, leaving Blackthorne hunkered over him once again.

"I don't need my eyes to see you," one hand loosed and reached for his neck. Several long drips of blood were now dangerously close to landing on his face, "sixty percent and you have a deal."

 

[Darth Osano]

Maleagant's eyes brimmed with an ever increasing amount of fury and outrage the longer this carried on. Her eyes suddenly shot away when she detected his two other Specialists were getting closer than she would have liked. Maleagant was not in the best position to see the full picture of what was going on. Some sort of seismic wave, he wagered, although he was more focused on fumbling to take something out of his holster during the momentary distraction. He was not so un-attuned that he couldn't tell a manipulation of the Force from some complicated gadgetry. She was definitely worth sixty percent, but a gladiator that attacked her manager was no gladiator any manager wanted to have.

Her eyes snapped back to attention, but now they were reflecting a sort of annoyed resolve. Maleagant made a disgusted sound as more Shamalain blood got on his face, his brand new face. One of her hands went for his neck, and then quite suddenly she would find an MSD-32 Disruptor Pistol jammed under her chin. "Twenty percent." The trigger was already depressed, the audible hum of the power cell indicated it was charging. There was no if about the gun going off, only when... And whether or not the [member="Blackthorne"]'s chin would still be on top of the muzzle when it did.

"Limited time offer."

 

[Blackthorne]

A grunt sounded in response to the electrical whine at her throat, followed by a groan of disappointment.

"Hrrngh - fine, whatever," Dahl let him go, dropping him with a dramatic roll of her eyes, "here I thought you were going to be fun. Can't even throw a fething punch."

 

[Darth Osano]

The weapon discharged into the ceiling, disintegrating a portion of it. In addition to anything that had been broken during the fight that Maleagant didn't intend on replacing already, that was being taken out of her first paycheck. The power cell popped out automatically, bellowing steam. Maleagant coughed and sat himself back up, plucking a fresh cell out from within his jacket and sliding it into the pistol. It locked in with a satisfying click and he returned it to his holster. "I don't mix business with pleasure." Unsurprisingly, Maleagant sounded particularly short in his speech this time around. He had already picked out his stun baton from among the various refuse knocked loose by the Force Wave, walking over to it with a minor limp. "Neither should you."

The Specialists were picking themselves up now, including one who was helping another to his feet. Some help they had been. Could it have gone worse? Maybe. Maleagant didn't like to bother himself about the "what-ifs" while looking back on any given scenario. He hoped that this run-down den was empty. The fewer people who witnessed that scuffle, the better. No one would agree to a fight with a Force Sensitive gladiator.

He collapsed the baton, sliding it back up his sleeve. Somehow, it stayed there. "It costs money." He added, hotly, perhaps referencing the greatly reduced cut the [member="Blackthorne"] could look forward to receiving. Lesson number one for the youngster.

 

[Blackthorne]

"Uh huh, blah blah."

Somehow he'd managed to perfect the same exact lecturing tone of her father and she was 99% certain they had never met. Lucianus Adair didn't get out much.

"I don't come here every other weekend for anything other than to fight. You let me know when I can come back and do that. I got ... things to do."

Tromp tromp tromp, she was headed for the exit.

 

[Darth Osano]

Maleagant fixed her with a withering glare as [member="Blackthorne"] exited, apparently neglecting to leave him a way to actually contact her. Considering both his broken nose and wounded pride, he elected not to protest this. As a matter of fact, Maleagant decided that if he didn't see her again until he was dying of old age (a terribly long way off, circa 1300 ABY), it would still be too soon. Familiar face to ease the transitional phase of this fighting pit or not, if she went around walloping everyone who ever made a business proposition, she'd be more trouble than she was worth.

Not that he would bar her from fighting if she returned... He simply wouldn't be seeking her out. Not actively.

"Is this building cleared?" Maleagant inquired, not looking away from the door or softening his glare.

"Yessir."

"Call in the construction crew." He ordered. "We're starting now."

-----​

 

[Darth Osano]

-----​

ARIS
DEAD CLIPPER ARENA

Weeks later, when the [member="Blackthorne"] finally decided to show up once again, Golbrug's fighting pits were looking quite different. Where the ramshackle structure had once squatted, a looming stone castle now stood vigil. The exterior was made of stone, anyway- a facade made for aesthetic pleasure. The inside was just as dim and sinister as she might remember, but now it was much larger. Cantinas were now commonplace, locker rooms had been expanded, and now there were a total of five cages for gladiators to duke it out in.

There were a couple of Enforcers hanging around the entrance, plus one of the White-helmed Specialists. Like with the other people entering and exiting, neither of the Enofrcers seemed to be paying that much attention to proceedings. It was hard to tell with those featureless masks. The Specialist however, did. He approached... Cautiously. Not nervously, though. He was too professional for that. Although he was remembering what had happened the last time a member of the Helix Syndicate had tried to have a reasonable discussion with this particular gladiator.

Rumors of Force Blasts apparently traveled quickly through the ranks.

"Maleagant wants you to meet him in his office." He said. "I was told to escort you."