Duel Galactic Kaggath Round 2: Darth Virelia vs CT-312

[Mauve]

x

Molten rock covered the arena floor, churning under the pressure of its own heat. The dying corpse of the Wroyshr tree lit up with flame, descending steadily as its base burned away. Great branches broke away and were quickly consumed by the lava. As it devoured the last remnants of the first round’s environment, the second round’s stage took shape.

Platforms were scattered throughout the arena. They ranged from small ones which could barely hold one person to larger ones that evoked small duelling rings. Dozens of them floated at various heights, their machinery shielded against the heat from below.

Together, they formed the battleground for this round: a precarious battle above all-consuming lava with limited space to stand on.

Those who fell would be incinerated by the lava and forgotten in a tomb of molten rock.

The announcer’s voice cut through the excited chatter of the crowds as the combatants were ferried into the arena on small, floating platforms: “In remembrance of the Battle of Mustafar, fought by the First Order and the Galactic Alliance many decades ago, we present to you the second battlefield of the Kaggath!”

“Weeeelcome back for ROUND TWOOOO! Standing on the platform, the masked six-eyed demon herself, the tenacious, the terrible, the Darth Vireliiiiaaaaa.”

“And facing her across the platform, the Scout Extraordinaire, she’s mean, she’s lean, and she’s here to shoot your dream, it’s CT-312!”

Thirty minutes after the chaos and carnage of round one. Five minutes after the sudden announcement of a bounty that ripped through the arena like wildfire. The second round… began.

“CHALLENGERS! BEGIN!”

Darth Virelia | CT-312

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING:Halcyon Armour |Contact Lenses |Wrist Mounted APG |Ancile Shield |Aredian Armlet //:
//: EQUIPMENT: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round | Shiva Knife //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades //:
//: 1x Ion Grenade | 1x Flash Grenade | 1x Incendiary Grenade | 1 x Smoke Grenade //:
​

The air shimmered with heat. CT-312 stood near the edge of her platform. One boot planted forward, her weight evenly distributed for movement. The whole arena had changed. Below her the ground had been replaced by molten death. Lava bubbled and churned. Around her were suspended metal discs. The heat radiated in waves that could be felt throughout the arena. CT-312 watched as the Wroyshr tree crackled in its final movements as it burst into the inferno with violent flames.

CT-312 watched it go. Feeling the heat rise up and around her. Slowly seeping through the suit of armor she wore. Only fire, air, and steel. The Camo Scout didn’t pull back as flames rose higher. The transition was almost ceremonial. Grand, yet pointless. She didn’t need theatrics. But the audience did. The crowd roared above. CT-312 tuned it out, like she always did. Irrelevant. That sound didn’t exist in her world. Only the target.

Six eyed demon. A Sith Lord. CT-312’s grip tightened on her rifle. Her fingers flexed once, then settled. Calm. She’d been deployed alongside Sith Lords before. Escort missions. Battle operations. The objective was to work with them. More accurately, for them. Don’t ask questions. Disposable.

Now she was fighting one.

A bounty put on the organizers mid-broadcast. The arena structures collapse into magma. Combatants scramble to prepare for the next round. Someone upstairs had lost control. Or maybe they never had it to begin with.

This whole thing was a chit show.

CT-312 had been scanning the floating platforms ahead. Varying sizes. Spaced irregularly. All of them suspended by repulsorlift engines. Straining against the heat. Hazardous. There was no cover. No do-overs. The Camo Scout took a step forward. Feeling the heat crawl up through her boots and into her calves. She could feel the armor warming beneath the plating. It wasn’t just temperature. There was pressure. This was an environment that punished you, if you made a mistake.

Her objective. Survive. CT-312 adjusted her stance. Raising her maser rifle. 'Confirm first. Move Second. Kill third.' The signal came through her comms as the announcer’s voice boomed over the lava choked arena. Instead of moving. CT-312 was curious. She would wait to confirm something with this Sith Lord. She wasn't going to leap just because the crowd wanted her to. Her repulsors on stand-by. Calculating. On guard, just in case.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 2."

Tags - CT-312



The heat was alive.

It didn't just crawl along the skin or shimmer in the distance—it clawed up through the air, hungry, omnipresent, wrapping around everything like a lover turned predator. The Wroshyr tree, once proud and ancient, was now a funeral pyre. Its embers rose like black snow, flickering against the blood-orange haze that filled the arena. Cracks echoed from the dying trunk as it collapsed in full, swallowed by the molten abyss below.

Serina Calis watched it burn.

She stood alone on her platform, robes still torn from the last engagement, blackened at the hem. The simple synthweave clung to her like a second skin beneath the open robes, her pale shoulders marked with trails of ichor—some fresh, most already crusted. She had not healed. She had not changed. She had merely survived.

Survival was enough.

The announcer's words rippled through the haze like distant thunder, barely heard over the roar of the lava. The crowd roared in kind, expecting blood, spectacle, madness. But Serina remained motionless. Her bare feet were planted at the center of her platform, balanced with the casual poise of someone standing atop a throne, not a deathtrap.

Across the chasm of molten fire and dancing platforms stood the scout.

CT-312.

Serina's gaze found her immediately—angled posture, steady rifle grip, repulsors primed but not yet triggered. A professional. The kind that lived on instinct, not impulse. No taunt in her stance. No desperation. Only calculation.

Serina studied her the way one might study a blade in another's hand.

Her eyes—unaugmented, human, blue as ice—narrowed slightly beneath her hood. No six-eyed mask. No armor. No weapon visible at all. Just flesh. Breath. Will.

She saw the trooper wait. Good. Waiting was rare in these arenas. Most leapt to violence like dogs to meat, eager to prove something. But this one paused. Calculated.

So Serina responded in kind.

She moved.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Not with menace or flourish—but with form. One foot turned outward, then the other, a pivot of her hips to square her chest toward the scout across the void. Her arms unfolded from her sides, letting the robe part slightly to reveal the black bodysuit beneath, still scarred with saber-burns and dried ichor, her stomach wrapped in fresh black bandage. She looked half-dead.

And then she raised her hand.

A salute.

A full, proper, military-grade salute.

Open palm to her brow, fingers together, no motion wasted. She held it for a full breath—longer than etiquette demanded—then let it fall, slow as dusk, back to her side.

It wasn't honor.

It wasn't mercy.

It was recognition.

Serina stepped forward to the edge of her platform, where the heat licked against her toes and the shimmer of rising thermal distortion made the air dance. She said nothing.

She simply stood there.

Watching.

Letting the moment settle. Letting the audience, high above and distant, lean in with bated breath. Letting CT-312 make the next move. Not out of laziness.

But out of respect.

Not for the trooper. But for the dynamic. The configuration of the moment. The power in balance, unspent.

Serina's head tilted, ever so slightly. Her robe flared open with the lazy tug of the wind, heat currents tossing it like smoke around her ankles. She did not ignite a weapon. She did not extend the Force. She did not posture.

Instead, she took one more step.

A test.

Not aggression.

Invitation.

The molten rock below shifted, belched fire. One of the smaller platforms dipped into the edge of the lava and vanished without ceremony, consumed like paper in flame. A warning.

But Serina didn't look down.

She looked only at her.

CT-312.

A ghost of a smile curved her lips—dry, sardonic, but not cruel.

The trooper had already made the hardest decision: to pause. Serina would reward that.

Her left hand lifted again—not in salute this time, but open-palmed, level with her shoulder. Fingers splayed just slightly. A peace gesture. A rare thing, from a Sith. It offered no advantage. No cover. No deception. Just clarity.

I am not your enemy.

Not yet.

And then she closed her hand into a fist.

Just once.

A second test. A subtle signal. A chance to align.

A truce—on her terms.

She did not speak. There were no words the audience needed to hear. No declarations. No dares. Only the silent question left between two professionals standing over hell:

Is this necessary?

Serina could feel the other fights unfolding. The circuits behind the ray shields. The delicate, intentional cracks she had paid to have installed. The air shimmered in more ways than heat alone. One of those matches—her match—was coming. But this?

This didn't need to end in fire.

Not if the scout had the sense to read the moment. Not if she saw past the theatrics. Past the titles. Past the fangs.

And if she didn't—

Well.

Then Serina would burn her down like all the rest.

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING:Halcyon Armour |Contact Lenses |Wrist Mounted APG |Ancile Shield |Aredian Armlet //:
//: EQUIPMENT: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round | Shiva Knife //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades //:
//: 1x Ion Grenade | 1x Flash Grenade | 1x Incendiary Grenade | 1 x Smoke Grenade //:
​

Her HUD lit up. A body signature. Movement. Darth Virelia. CT-312’s head snapped toward the alert. Her body pivoted on instincts. One hard bink– cyber-eye lenses zoomed in. Target acquired.

Across the arena, the so called six-eyed demon stood still. Barefoot, pale, tattered robes swaying in the heat. The same figured plastered across the haloscreens. Eyes, meant to inspire fear. Dread. Submission. But now? Darth Virelia’s face was exposed. Unexpectedly, CT-312 saw was youth. The six eyed nightmare is… ’A kid?’ Early twenties. The scout blinked. Somewhere around TK-710, Jacen Breska , and the Princess's, Quinn Varanin , age. Having the same reaction when she first met the two. ‘What is it with the Sith and handing out titles to children?’

CT-312’s fingers tightened slightly around the rifle’s stock. Reminding herself, just because they’re kids doesn’t mean there isn’t a killer hiding underneath the facade of a Porg. Not to mistake softness for safety. Sith Lords came in all shapes, the threat never changed. And this one?

The threat was watching her back.

From the start of the buzzer, the Lady didn’t rush. Didn’t leap, nor yell like so many of the other contestants. Instead, she turned. Facing CT-312 directly. No weapons visible. As the robes parted, revealing a bodysuit, some kind of black blood, bandages, and saber wounds. No armor. No glowstick. The Camo Scout’s eyes narrowed behind the visor. Observing Darth Virelia. Her body tensed as the Sith raised their hand. Instinctively CT-312’s body dropped into a combat stance. Blinking hard– zoom off. Rifle snapped up, scope to eye. Ready to pull the trigger. She was met with–

‘A salute?...’ A proper one. Open palm. Military standard. It was not ceremonial nor mockery. Just… acknowledgement. ‘...That’s new.’ CT-312 paused. Maintaining trigger finger discipline. She’d work around Sith before. None had ever saluted her. Let alone be the first one to initiate. The disposables were the ones who saluted first. But this? Unexpected.

Her grip loosened. Slowly, CT-312 lowered the rifle. Taking a few steps forward, one burst from the repulsor pack made her jump look effortless. Cleanly landing on a platform closer. Thud. Eyes still locked. Her right hand still on the weapon’s grip. CT-312 brought her left hand up. Sharp. Snapping into position. Returning the salute. Acknowledgement, in the silence. Her hand dropped back to her weapon.

The Scout kept silent, assessing Darth Virelia’s actions. The Lady took a step forward. Still unarmed and calm. Still looking at her. Only the low bubbling molten rock and the hum of the metal platforms could be heard around them. A smile appeared on the Sith’s face. ‘Ah.’ CT-312 recognized it. A kind of smile that always hides a blade. Slowly, another gesture followed— an open palm. A rare symbol of peace. A brow lifted slightly behind the visor, head slightly tilted. Just as Darth Virelia’s palm was open, it closed into a fist. ‘Unbelievable.’ CT-312 let out a quiet amused huff. This round was full of surprises.

Her mind processed the encounter like targeting data.
Engage now. Risk Betrayal. Shots fired, outcome uncertain.
Ignore the gesture. Maintain control. Lose opportunity. Possibly provoke.
Reciprocate. No advantage gained. No advantage given.

Silence lingered between them. Slowly, CT-312 holstered her Maser Rifle. Hands up– palms open. Not a threat. The crowd around them were getting impatient. Wanting something to happen. The Scout didn’t care. Eyes never leaving the Darth. Advancing cautiously, she jumped again. Another platform closer. Now only a few platforms were separating them. They were eye level. Equal footing.

CT-312 broke the silence. Her words crackled through the helmet's modulator. Steady, sharp, and edge with a quiet threat. “Are you…” Her right hand moved, slow and controlled. Unholstering the LO-18D. “...Unchecked–” fingers subtly toggled the ammo switch. Slug Rounds. “...Power?” Click. The sound was soft, but final. The same rounds that carved through saber wielding Sith on Serreno. The kind that didn’t bounce off sabers. Shattering through bone and ego alike. Making simply Byss Cheese out of those it came across.

The Scout had seen what happens when you let the wrong force user get too close. Would this Sith Lord do to her what Darth Malum of House Marr did to Gida Luroon ? CT-312 wasn’t here to be toyed with. She waited for an answer. Weapon low, but ready. Not aiming. Not yet. If Darth Virelia was like the others, CT-312 would find out soon enough.

But if the Lady wasn’t… then maybe… just maybe… this didn’t have to end in fire. Not unless the Sith made her.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 2."

Tags - CT-312



The words hung between them like the final click of a safety disengaged.

"Are you… unchecked power?"

The phrase echoed in the space between heat mirages and repulsorlift hum, riding the tremor of molten air, sharp and deliberate. A question posed like a verdict already halfway drawn. But Serina Calis did not flinch. She did not reach for a weapon. She didn't recoil from the sound of the slug round locking into place. Her smile remained, curved not in amusement—but in invitation.

Unchecked power.
She let the accusation linger.

How many times had she heard that phrase? How many Jedi had whispered it before death, their voices a last breath of dogma? How many petty Sith lords—chained to madness, lost in fury—had made the same mistake? They had assumed that because she didn't scream her anger or shatter the earth with every step, that she was wild.

They were all wrong.

Serina Calis was not power without control.

She was control made manifest.

The Sith Lord raised her chin slightly, letting the ambient light of the lava flicker against her throat and jawline, illuminating the underside of her face like the edge of a blade. The broken robes hung like ceremonial ash from her frame, each tear and scorch mark a deliberate refusal to conceal the truth: she was wounded. She was weakened. But she was still standing.

And that said more than any boast could.

"You mistake me," she said at last.

Her voice was quiet, rich, precise. It slid through the air like silk on molten glass—not seductive in tone, but in effect. Controlled, articulate, delivered with the soft confidence of a woman who had never raised her voice to be heard.

"I am not unchecked."

She took a slow, measured step forward—onto another platform, smaller, swaying gently under her weight. She remained balanced with the elegance of something bred for storm and shadow. Her hand remained at her side, open, never straying toward aggression. Her other hand, stained faintly in ichor, gestured to the burning tree behind her—what remained of round one.

"Unchecked power burns itself out," she said, still speaking plainly. "It devours and screams. It blinds. It falls."
Her gaze flicked—once—to the rifle. Then returned to CT-312's visor.

"Look at me."

She gestured again—this time at herself. The bandages. The burns. The ichor dried to her hip where her abdomen had been slashed. "Does that look like someone who lashes out without thought?"

She took another step. Now they were only two platforms apart. The wind howled up from below, thick with the stink of plasma and carbon. The crowd was restless above—expecting blood. Yet the silence between them held.

Serina's eyes never left CT-312's helmet. Not once.

"Power without control is noise," she murmured. "I am silence. I am the pause that breaks momentum. I am what remains after your screaming enemies die out and your orders no longer make sense."

Her tone dropped an octave. Not threatening.

Intimate.

"I am not unchecked power," she said, voice curling like smoke. "I am inevitability."

There was no pride in the statement. No bravado. Just the quiet, dreadful truth of it.

The kind of truth you didn't see coming until it was too late.

Then, as if punctuating her point, she lifted her right hand again—palm still open—and extended two fingers toward CT-312's chest.

Not close enough to touch.

Just enough to imply it.

"You were sent here to survive," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips once more. "And you've done well. Better than most. You didn't charge. You didn't grandstand. You didn't fire to feel alive. You waited. You read the terrain. You saw something in me you didn't understand and decided not to fire until you did."

Her head tilted.

"That makes you more dangerous than most Jedi I've killed."

Silence. The heat roared beneath them. One of the distant platforms groaned and fell, swallowed by the lava. It didn't even scream.

Serina took one last step. Now they stood at arm's length, separated by a single leap's worth of space.

"If you fire that slug," she said, voice gentler now, "you'll force my hand. You won't win. But you will make me regret the gesture I offered."

She let that hang there for a breath. Not as a threat.

As a guarantee.

Then—the shift.

Serina's smile changed. Just a little. Enough to invade, rather than invite. Something about her posture, about the tilt of her hips and the straightness of her spine, took on a new tone. Still poised. Still composed. But unmistakably dominant. Not cruel. Not perverse. But like a queen deciding whether or not to allow a knight to speak freely in her court.

"You're not disposable, Scout," she said softly. "Not to me."

Another breath.

"And if we are to part ways here… then let it be as professionals. Not as fireworks."

Her final gesture came slowly—a nod, small and deliberate. It was not one of surrender. Nor deference.

It was permission.

To leave. To walk away. To let the match end clean.

Because Serina didn't need to defeat CT-312.

Not today.

She had other plans.

But the scout didn't need to know that.

Not yet.

The Sith Lord stepped back one pace—fluid, light. A single move that said everything it needed to.

She was letting CT-312 decide.

The truce would hold, if she wanted it to.

Serina turned, finally, for the first time—not fully, but enough to show her back was exposed. A calculated, deliberate trust. And beneath it, a challenge.

But she was certain of one thing:

If the scout did pull the trigger—she'd regret living through it.

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING:Halcyon Armour |Contact Lenses |Wrist Mounted APG |Ancile Shield |Aredian Armlet //:
//: EQUIPMENT: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round | Shiva Knife //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades //:
//: 1x Ion Grenade | 1x Flash Grenade | 1x Incendiary Grenade | 1 x Smoke Grenade //:
​

Waiting for an answer, CT-312 watched the micro expressions shift across Darth Virelia’s face. Still smiling. Her head tilted slightly upward. The molten lava below casted flickering light along the underside of her face, her jawline, her torn robes. When the Lady spoke, her tone gave nothing away. No anger. No theatrics. Instead it was controlled. Just calm, quiet, confidence. CT-312 held steady as the Sith slowly stepped forward onto another platform. Closer.

She scanned for signs of aggression. A twitch. A tell. Anything to give reason to pull the trigger. But there was nothing. Only the Lady’s eyes flickering briefly to her weapon, before returning to her visor.

"Look at me."

So CT-312 did. This time she looked closely. Fully assessing the damage. Bandages across her midsection. Burn marks. Saber wounds half-sealed. Still bleeding somewhere, probably. A body in recovery. A body halfway towards death. Not hiding it, nor defending it. Darth Virelia was just… wearing it.

The Camo Scout just simply stood there. Breathing slowly through the modulator. Another step. Two platforms apart. The tension in the air was taught, like a tripwire pulled thin between them. CT-312’s finger rested just outside the trigger guard. Not on it… not yet. Then she picked up on the sudden shift in tone.

"I am not unchecked power," she said, voice curling like smoke. "I am inevitability."

Confidence. That’s what this was. Not arrogance. Not madness. Control. The Lady radiated it like heat from the lava below. Darth Virelia’s eyes focused on CT-312 the whole time. Unbothered by the crowd, the risk, or even the weapon she had in her hands. Darth Virelia carried no need to prove herself. She measured. The Lady had said all the right things. About restraint, balance. About survival. CT-312 had heard it before. Always spoken right before the mask slipped. Reminding her what they really were.

But still… Darth Virelia hadn’t lied… That much the Scout could read. Not in her voice. But her demeanor. From the restraint. The precision.

‘Not.’

Despite the Darth being two platforms away, it felt as if the Lady was standing right infront of her. As if her outstretched hand might touch CT-312’s chestplate at any second. Her grip tightened on the weapon. Was it praise or observation? And ‘What the hell even was even a Jedi?’ The Scout’s thoughts churned behind the visor. Processing faster than she should sort them.

‘Unchecked.’

The silence in their arena was deafening. Heat from the molten magma wrapped around them like a vise. Making the pressure of the atmosphere even hotter. Another step from Darth Virelia was taken. Arm’s length now. Close enough for a lunge. Close enough for a squeeze of the trigger. Only a fool would get this close. The Lady’s voice shifted again. Softer. But sharper. Her posture changed again. CT-312 could feel the knife behind those words as they lingered, if she were to pull the trigger.

"You're not disposable, Scout," she said softly. "Not to me."

‘Ha.’ CT-312 scoffed. A dry, bitter sound. ‘I’m not disposable, huh?’ Not to you. Could mean she was useful. A piece. A pawn. Or maybe it meant she was seen. And that was almost more dangerous. CT-312 knew she was created to be disposable. Thrown out like junk. That was the truth. There was no place for her. Except the inevitable. This? Amusing. The thought dug deep. CT-312 felt her jaw clench under the helmet.

‘Different.’

She eyed Darth Virelia’s back as she turned. Exposed and vulnerable. Taunting to most. But it wasn’t arrogance. It was something worse… Certainty. A clean exit had been offered. An option. Choice. Her mind churned. The temptation.

CRASH. Platforms from the arena behind Darth Virelia caved inward. Colliding with each other in a loud shriek of metal.

CT-312 snapped back to the moment. Her eyes twitched behind the Lady. It was the Champion of the Sith Order and Malum. Without missing a beat, another thunderclap echoed across the stadium. A volley of missiles slamming into the arena to the left of them. Flashes of smoke. Fire and chaos. Her visor snapped slightly towards the direction of the destruction, while having Darth Virelia in her line of sight still.

The Scout saw it and knew immediately. ‘That’s right...’ TK-710, Jacen Breska , was still here. Fighting in that arena. Still standing. Still pushing forward. That’s what soldiers did. That’s what they are. Always fighting their way out. They couldn’t trust anybody in this place, just each other. CT-312’s head slowly turned. Eyes beneath locked with the Sith. A low growl built in her chest.

A frustrated breath hissed through her filter. CT-312 hated every moment of this karking tournament. She stepped forward. One foot. Not chasing. Testing. Her body dropped back into a combat stance. Rifle raised. Cautious and centered. She advanced, closing the gap to another arms length again. Muzzle to Darth Virelia’s back.

CT-312’s voice came down low through the vocoder. Steady and unreadable. “You turn your back like that on anyone else…” A pause. “ …you die.” No malice. No anger. Just fact.

Aiming at her target. One more twitch. One more breath. Finger hovering just above the trigger.

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Round 2."

Tags - CT-312



She heard the growl through the modulator.
Felt the rifle lift.
Felt the air change behind her like the exhale of a predator pressed close to her spine.

Serina did not flinch.

She remained exactly where she was—bare feet on heated durasteel, robes torn, head slightly bowed beneath the flickering light of molten fire. Her back still exposed. Her body still bleeding in places. And yet, every line of her posture, every tilt of her frame, exuded one clear, immutable message:

She was not afraid.

"You turn your back like that on anyone else… you die."

The words cracked like a bone snapping in silence. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just a reminder.

Serina's head turned just slightly, her jawline angling back toward the scout. One blue eye caught the reflection of the rifle's muzzle, mirrored in the sweat-misted air.

Good.

She wanted the scout to say it. To know it. Because that meant she understood the rules of power. And Serina had always rewarded understanding.

But there were greater things at play here.

She had waited long enough.

Her gaze shifted, passing through the haze of rising heat. In the distance, past the platforms cracking under pressure and the erratic repulsorlift fields fighting to stay stable, she could feel it.

The other match.

Her match.

Darth Malum.

The coward in gilded armor. The carrion king of false etiquette. The thing she had been denied the first time.

She had waited through the ceremony of survival. Waited through pain. Through respect. Through strategy.

But now, the time for patience had passed.

Now it was time to collect.

Serina raised one hand—slowly, deliberately, palm facing the flickering sky. Her fingers curled, then splayed. Sparks crackled at her fingertips, not like lightning from a storm, but like the kind that came before a fire.

Her eyes locked onto a barely visible node just above the far edge of the arena—a distortion in the ray shield. A flaw.

One she had paid for.

Now.

And with a single motion, she snapped her fingers.

A spark of Force lightning shot out—thin, precise, a whispered scream of energy—and lanced into the node. The air shimmered, convulsed—then collapsed. The ray shield between her arena and the one beyond flickered.

Once.
Twice.

Then it fell.

An audible shudder rippled through the arena as the shield hissed and dissolved in a shower of sparks. The crowd gasped. The announcers began scrambling to cover what had just happened.

But Serina didn't wait for their voices.

She was already moving.

The signal had been given.

Across the dark corridors that ran beneath the arena, hidden hands began moving. Purses of credits changed owners. Schedules were quietly rewritten. Ray shields were "recalibrated." The illusion of chaos—of a world unraveling by accident—had just been birthed.

But it wasn't chaos.

It was a plan.

Her plan.

Serina turned, finally, to face CT-312 once more. Her expression was unreadable now. Not cold. Not triumphant. Resolved.

And behind her, the firelight painted her silhouette with devil's brushstrokes.

"You were right," she said softly. "Most would have killed me."

Then she stepped closer.

Not threatening. But near. Her voice dropped just enough that only the scout's auditory processors would pick it up.

"But I didn't turn my back on anyone."

"I turned it on everyone else."

A pause.

A faint smirk.

"You weren't the threat I needed to watch, because you aren't unchecked."

"They are."

And then she was gone.

Her feet launched from the platform with a snap of Force-assisted speed, a crack of air and heat in her wake. She hurled herself into the gap left by the fallen ray shield—toward the match unfolding just beyond it.

Toward Malum.

Toward reckoning.

Toward the true theatre of her vengeance.

 

[CT-312]

//: Darth Virelia //:
//: Arena, Ruusan //:
//: Attire //:
//: WEARING:Halcyon Armour |Contact Lenses |Wrist Mounted APG |Ancile Shield |Aredian Armlet //:
//: EQUIPMENT: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LO-18D | LO-22S | Sunshot Pistol //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round | Shiva Knife //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades //:
//: 1x Ion Grenade | 1x Flash Grenade | 1x Incendiary Grenade | 1 x Smoke Grenade //:
​

The rifle stayed trained on Darth Virelia’s back. The sight perfectly centered. But the lady didn’t waver. Instead, she stood still. Barefoot on the scorched durasteel, robes tattered, visible wounds and all, every inch of Darth Virelia’s body language delivered one message. She wasn’t afraid. Rifle still aimed, the Sith’s hand went up. A snap.

CT-312’s visor flicked as a bolt of Force lighting surged from the Lady’s outstretched hand. Cracking them like a sniper's shot. The bolt struck one of the upper node relays. One of the many responsible for maintaining the ray shields separating their arena from the next.

CRACK.
POP.

The node burst with sparks jutting out. A high-pitched whine filled the air as the ray shields around them began to flicker. Shudder, then disappearing. The crowd gasped in a single collective intake. CT-312’s breath caught just slightly in her throat. Her eyes slightly widened. Not entirely grasping what just happened, was it Darth Virelia’s control or the premeditated precision of it? The Lady turned, slow and deliberate. Taking a step toward CT-312. Her voice came out soft enough only for the Scout to hear.

"But I didn't turn my back on anyone."

"I turned it on everyone else."

A pause.

A faint smirk.

"You weren't the threat I needed to watch, because you aren't unchecked."

"They are."

The Sith launched herself in a blur of momentum from the platform. Straight into the other arena. Straight towards Malum. ‘They are.’ CT-312 tracked her all the way, rifle still aimed. Finger still hovering over the trigger. She didn’t fire. Not because she couldn’t. But because she understood.

A truce. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? No. A temporary truce. There was no declaration or treaty. Just silence and heat of mutual restraint. Darth Virelia offered a breath between storms. A pause that could become peace, if both sides wanted it badly enough. CT-312 didn’t believe in peace. Not in her line of work. ‘Peace was a pause, not a place.’ Such things don’t exist for someone like her.

CT-312 exhaled. Disbelief lingered in her chest like static. Even now Darth Virelia was still playing a longer game. Turning her back hadn’t been weakness. It was certainty and control in its purest form. “Ha.” A scoff slipped from her vocoder. Low and humorless.

Repulsor pack flaring to life, CT-312 launched herself forward. Leaping across cleanly on the next platform. Constantly moving through the broken boundary. Her weapon was up again, eyes scanning the battlefield.