Fable Merrill
As directed by Michael Bay.
"ALL OF YOU! HAVE COME! FOR ONE REASON! FOR THE GLORY! OF OUR HOST! THE GREAT HUTT!" A booming announcer declared, his voice echoing through the dingy, poorly-lit basement/warehouse Fable found herself in. Nar Shadda was full of lovely little nooks like this, filled with the desperate dregs of society, milling about impatiently as the hypeman explained why they should be thankful to be there. Fable tuned him out; this was not her first time. A lesser Hutt had some coin, wanted to show off to his flunkies, time for a battle royale - the perfect thing to accompany a wild party and live music was fifty or so nobodies beating the heck out of each other in a pit in the middle of it all in hopes for a prize that'd barely cover the medical bills they'd accrue.
Some were slaves. Some were people with no other skills. Some people were here because they figured it'd be fun, or glorious. And some, like Fable herself, were addicts: slaves of a different sort. She'd been made to fight, after all. The thrill of boiling blood and the craving to lash out in violence was coded into her very being. What recourse did Fable have? Sign up to fight a war she didn't believe in, or bleed and brawl with people who'd mostly signed up for it?
It was her secret shame, her hidden passion. And around her, Fable even saw a few familiar faces. Men and women here for the same thing she was. In a moment, they'd be beating the tar out each other for barely any reason at all. Fable offered a scar-riddled Wookie - a regular winner, unsurprisingly - a friendly wave. He whurfed back and nodded a greeting. Good guy. Looked like he'd lost an eye recently. Pity, that.
"AND FINALLY! REMEMBER THE RULES! NO WEAPONS! YOU KILL IT, YOU BUY IT! LET THE BLOODSPORT... BEGIN!"
An obnoxious horn was the signal to begin, followed by a lively baseline from the band that led into a lightning-fast, harsh-sounding, heart-pounding mess of horns, drums and string.
An immediate sucker-punch from the masked man behind her nearly dropped get out of hand - gauntlets, it seemed, weren't weapon enough to get confiscated by the guards who'd searched them. Fable wanted no part of that nonsense, and stumbled forward, grabbing into the arm of the woman (she figured) beside her. A twist and grunt, and Fable swung the dense Devronian around and into a wall, dazing her just long enough for a proper arm bar. Just a bit more pressure...
Something snapped, and adrenaline flooded Fable's system as she dropped the screaming, recently-armbroke woman. The mosh pit thummed and flailed all around her, to the screaming of the music and the cheers of the crowd. It was dirty, bloody, terrible and absolute magic. Where she was meant to be.
Some were slaves. Some were people with no other skills. Some people were here because they figured it'd be fun, or glorious. And some, like Fable herself, were addicts: slaves of a different sort. She'd been made to fight, after all. The thrill of boiling blood and the craving to lash out in violence was coded into her very being. What recourse did Fable have? Sign up to fight a war she didn't believe in, or bleed and brawl with people who'd mostly signed up for it?
It was her secret shame, her hidden passion. And around her, Fable even saw a few familiar faces. Men and women here for the same thing she was. In a moment, they'd be beating the tar out each other for barely any reason at all. Fable offered a scar-riddled Wookie - a regular winner, unsurprisingly - a friendly wave. He whurfed back and nodded a greeting. Good guy. Looked like he'd lost an eye recently. Pity, that.
"AND FINALLY! REMEMBER THE RULES! NO WEAPONS! YOU KILL IT, YOU BUY IT! LET THE BLOODSPORT... BEGIN!"
An obnoxious horn was the signal to begin, followed by a lively baseline from the band that led into a lightning-fast, harsh-sounding, heart-pounding mess of horns, drums and string.
An immediate sucker-punch from the masked man behind her nearly dropped get out of hand - gauntlets, it seemed, weren't weapon enough to get confiscated by the guards who'd searched them. Fable wanted no part of that nonsense, and stumbled forward, grabbing into the arm of the woman (she figured) beside her. A twist and grunt, and Fable swung the dense Devronian around and into a wall, dazing her just long enough for a proper arm bar. Just a bit more pressure...
Something snapped, and adrenaline flooded Fable's system as she dropped the screaming, recently-armbroke woman. The mosh pit thummed and flailed all around her, to the screaming of the music and the cheers of the crowd. It was dirty, bloody, terrible and absolute magic. Where she was meant to be.