Duel Making a fist, checking you twice

[Vella Forte]

Kelada Starport // Kelada // Darkwire Space
Sam Rodarch
Punch Bag
​

Getting here was fethin' tricky.

Vella'd tried to take sedatives for much of the journey, just so she didn't say the wrong thing. Or puke. The Hydian Way was the main route the pilot had navigated, but it cut right through scum space. With much of The Core being occupied by light-sniffers, they'd had to be stopped a few times, re-route, etcetera, so they weren't easily traced from the point of origin. Also meant a lot of roundabouts, and stopping, and checkpoints, and rerouting.

Honestly, by the time the landing gear was sticking out of the ship's belly, Vella was practically sprinting down the docking ramp. The pilot played it much cooler, strolling behind her and corresponding with the docking attendant. After a few minutes of exchange, the fellow approached Vella once more, keeping his eyes low. He didn't like the look of her blood-stricken gaze, and preferred affix it somewhere around her chin instead.

"Lorana's Labyrinth is about four warehouses down. We're parked close enough if we have to high tail, but far enough to avoid detection for a bit."

She gave a curt nod to the fellow, and popped the collar of her jacket to look a little less murderous and more mysterious. The pair of Sith employs made their way to the promised bar, where Vella'd needled out a luke warm lead on some of the mischief that was happening in the digital world.

It didn't take them long to wander through the port. The pilot spoke more than Vella did, offering his opinion on a few models they passed - talking about their aptitude for atmospheric longevity, or speed, or general modularity commentary that went in one ear and out the other of the Vahl huntress. Soon, they arrived at the unassuming doorway of the cantina.

"I'm going to do a quick walk around. Any exits from the outside will probably deposit out here. You go in, I'll send you the scans."

The fellow agreed, while the dark-haired girl slunk off to around the side, gaze skyward as she ran a visual inventory of some strange outlines of the cantina itself. Small doorways, strange windows, anything of that sort.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

As far as jobs went it was a pretty easy gig, almost too easy.

Protect the slicer. Something Sam Rodarch had actually done before, although that being said, last time she had protected a slicer at work, the woman had ended up eating actual shet in what was the sewer equivalent of the log flume. Now and again she could still smell it.

There were no daring high-profile bounty hunting stakes this time. No, today's target was information. What kind of information, you ask?

Sam didn't know.

Sam didn't care.

Important enough that a bit of muscle was required but not important enough to take place somewhere a little more subtle.

The slicer that she was with, a rapid-talking Duros with a nervous disposition was sat at the bar, elbow-deep in the HoloNet, the googles around his crimson bug-eyes the only measure of privacy in what was no doubt heavily illegal activity. The goggles were a handy method to avoid any wandering glances but left him completely vulnerable in the real world.

That's where Rodarch came in, she half-stood, half-leaned against the barstool next to her charge with her back to the bar, having absolutely no desire to stare at row upon row of fething drink for the next few hours. The location had already put a bad taste in her mouth, but the ire-filled expression etched upon her features at the very least kept the curious sorts away. So many poor spacers were forced to give the pair a very wide berth, lest the Mandalorian's stare set them on ablaze.

A headache born from frustration was coming on.

Why all the mirrors? Why a bloody cantina? It was always a cantina. Did Darkwire personnel know that other kinds of places existed? It seemed as if they didn't, as if taunting the short-tempered teetotal woman was some kind of secondary hobby to breaking the law.

The bastards.

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Lorana's Labyrinth // Kelada // Darkwire Space
Sam Rodarch ​

It took several minutes to run the approximate scans and indexes of the different outlets the building offered. She looked down at her data pad while it created a small replica of the building from the outside, frowning at the reality that there was a whole wall missing because the cantina was wedged amidst the warehouses. Ill content with the projection, she input the pilot's codes and transmitted the layout to his datapad. Somewhere in the cantina, his pocket would buzz.

Meanwhile, to refresh herself one more time, she reviewed the dossier briefing of the target she was hunting down. Her gloved hand swiping through the images and captured data. A blue-green humanoid with too much access to remain a freelancer. A snap of finality removed all the information she'd been reviewing, and she stowed away the datapad once again beneath folds of dark cloth.

Ducking inside the cantina doorway, she was met with the expected. From one bar to another, there was little change; no matter how much pride each host took in their nest. Scum, scoundrels and other half-wits all skulked about or sat hunched over their poison of choice. Everyone seemed too interested in themselves to notice others, though once in a while someone would cast a suspicious glance upward once in a while. The clouds of smoke and light pollution within the cantina was enough to obscure any vision, so anyone pretending to be cool enough to capture enough detail with a single glance was a bold-faced liar.

Vella wove through the lingering bodies, taking no particular caution to conceal her disinterest in the drinks and focusing on matching species before zeroing on faces.

"If I were a nerd, where would I hide.." She was only looking for faces that were lit from below, assuming her target would be spending time on a device rather than dialogue. There were a few patrons reviewing things on their devices, but none of their bone structures matched any of the profiled Duros. She quickly wrote them off, and wove her way forward. Where in the Emperor's name was the bar? For a while, she was figuratively running into wall after wall in a literal maze it seemed, taking time to note the interactions and update the model she passed through to her pilot - helping to complete the outer layer she'd passed through earlier.

Finally, she emerged from behind some sort of concealment, and detected the looping bar with elevated stools. Most were occupied, with backs toward her, except one -- where the person seemed entirely disinterested in the drinks. Why would someone come to a bar just to stare at other people? A quick assessment confirmed there was no purchase around the woman.

Guard duty.

And who would need to be guarded?

A bald, blue-headed Duros with a strap around his skull, twitching randomly in no way that someone would if they were truly interacting with anyone around them. Nobody else twitched back.

Bingo.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It was beginning to become preferable for something to go wrong. A foolish consideration, but one fuelled by loathsome boredom and ever-growing frustration.

Eyes that patrolled the room seemed to almost be challenging every soul that walked too closely to try something. An eyebrow twitch here. A curl of the lip there. Rigid and imposing body language begging to be let loose so there was at least something to do beyond standing there with a nose full of smoke and a mind full of stray thoughts.

It made her miss shockboxing. Wasn't very pretty. Wasn't that profitable. Wasn't conducive to good health.

But it was something to do, and it felt like home more than anything else did. There was a joy in the violence, primal satisfaction with each connecting hit. Adrenaline surging. Even the pain endured wrought some sense of purpose and determination, breeding scars like badges of honour saying things like, here I fething am.

Just part of who Sam Rodarch was.

Conversely, standing here and sending threatening glances to spacers and dock workers was not who she was and this was becoming more evident by the minute. Would the balloon-headed slicer work faster if she kicked him?

Tempting.

Enter somebody more interesting to stare at. Big goth energy wearing far too many layers to be comfortable. Seemed to take a fancy to the back of the slicer's head. Could there be some excitement on the horizon? An eyebrow leapt, wanting such a thing to be true but eyes squinted through the dim haze of smoke as if the woman might have been an illusion. It was kinda dark in there.

Oh no, was madness setting in? Was Sam seeing fictitious women in an urge to dispel the boredom? Real or fictitious, Rodarch's gaze had not budged an inch since laying eyes upon she who stared, in effect becoming she who stared back.

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Lorana's Labyrinth // Kelada // Darkwire Space
Sam Rodarch ​

This was enough eye contact to warrant confrontation. A sense of competition almost made her not want to blink, as soon as the spiky-haired guard met her gaze and held it for such a long time. If looks could kill, the pair would have to start back-to-back and re-draw.

Ok, this was definitely her move. She had the most distance to cover, and that predatory protector had proximal advantage to the blue-head. There’d been no move to wrap things up though, so the fellow deeply invested in what she could only assume was something on the holonet, was supposed to stay that way. The guardian couldn’t pull him from his focus. Only Vella could interrupt.

Her nose twitched in anticipation, the line across it folding with the movement before she set her trajectory for the two. In an instant, a large patron emerged from his seat by total happenstance. The bulking, herglic frame meandering from his seat toward the bar — enough for Vella to slip behind and twist out of the way, falling in step with the lumbering alien.

The creature navigated to the far end of the bar, leaving Vella about five bar stools to the left of where she wanted to be. He stood there, waiting for the barkeep to tend to him while she busied herself with darting eyes to see if there was another way to get close and remain more undetected than afore. The challenge in that stare had been delicious, but not conducive to the tag-and-bag she was here for. She needed the asset alive and alone.

“Do you want something?” The whale breathed in her direction.

“Don’t speak to me. Don’t look at me.” She hissed, holding up a defiant palm at the whale who twitched with agitation at her impertinence. He would have objected, but something impressed in his small mind not to, and to continue minding his business. Without objection, he obliged and there was an exchange of credits for a blue-glowing drink. Vella was mildly impressed at the dexterity of his fin. He activated once more, returning to his seat and Vella continued to use him for cover, amidst the smoke and dim lighting. Five barstools were quickly crossed, and she placed a bold hand on the shoulder of the Duros. The shoulder furthest from the crop-haired firecracker.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The staring contest was beginning to feel somewhat spicy, almost as if Rodarch's day was about to change and for the better. A spark, ready to ignite into violence at a moment's notice and break the great tedium that surrounded this job.

And then she was gone, causing Sam's body to suddenly stiffen and familiar frown lines to crease across her forehead.

Alarming.

Was the dark lady actually an illusion? Was the Mandalorian beginning to go mad from boredom? Or perhaps there were hallucinogenic fumes in the air? No. Gut feeling said otherwise, and the gut feeling was usually to be trusted, especially after eating the woman's signature grey meatloaf, then it was a feeling you should never ignore.

Naturally, in this scenario, they were in what seemed to be the most difficult cantina in the galaxy to navigate. A fleeting urge came and went, the urge to punch whoever designed this place squarely in the throat. If the lack of private booths and dim lighting wasn't irritating enough then the mirrored walls just topped everything right off.

Fething perfect.

Her static and imposing stance was finally broken as the woman pushed herself off of her leaning stool to take a better look around for the woman in black. A few steps forward, a glance to the left, then to the right and then inexplicably up at the ceiling. Rodarch had to figure that it would be an easy spot considering the look of the regulars that seemed to frequent here but apparently she was wrong.

Definitely a headache coming on as the shockboxer grit her teeth at the lack of possible confrontation.

The Duros (Klyde, by the way, but nobody had asked, which was quite rude) was armpit deep in HoloNet, so completely plugged in that the hand upon his shoulder caused him to suddenly jolt as he was torn between two worlds, blind hands flailing outwards and knocking over his untouched drink with an awkward clatter.

“Gack! Not now, Sam!” Klyde wheezed loudly, clearly both annoyed and startled at this sudden interruption but not even bothering to take off his googles.

“What?!”

This clearly caused offence as Rodarch wheeled round upon her heel, ready to smack the blue geek in the back of the head for daring to even take that tone of voice with her only to find that bloody woman standing right next to the slicer with a hand upon his shoulder.

When did she...? How did she...? Magic...?

Before too many internal questions were asked and Sam realised just how terrible she was at this supposedly simple and boring job the woman stormed forward, pointing an oft-broken and menacing finger at the sneaky goth as she moved to shove her new foe away from the slicer.

“Kark off, ya slippery shitebag!”

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Stupid, klaxon-mouthed hacker. She should have anticipated a wail or outburst of surprise without announcement. She should have covered his face! Maybe that’s why people bagged before they tagged. With a flicka da wrist, she could have twisted the Duros off the stool. When the asset squealed defiantly out to Sam, she tightened her grip with the intention of dragging him away into the night. Or into the labyrinth and eventually into the night. A finger pointed in her direction, and then the heels of hands to shove her backward. That steely grip against the Duros’ shoulder served to jerk him while she stepped on her back foot to prevent a fall.

The shove was a forceful thing. A raw energy behind it that caused Vella’s free hand to snap back and support herself on the edge of the bar. Of all the things she’d been called in her lifetime, slippery shite bag was not one of them. It was a word picture she didn’t like, and it was all too easy to visualize— which made her uncomfortable.

“Not now, Sam.” She parroted hotly in return, a wicked grin cracking her pale mouth and she gave a pull to the Duros’ shoulder and jacket to dislodge him from his seat, and break him from whatever havoc he was wreaking on the net. Likely something against the Empire.

With her back against the bar, she angled in closer to the Duros (Klyde, so sorry) as if to leverage him as a shield while she sorted out some sort of plan to get beyond this staring Sam. Undue attention was not an option. They were in a Cantina, for feth’s sake.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Oh no.

Didn't like that.

At all.

Rodarch's priorities became somewhat jumbled in the very moment that her name left that woman's lips. The very tiny and extremely exhausted voice of reason that existed within Sam's skull attempted to explain that names were how people often addressed each other and that it was no reason to see red, but then again, it was a very tiny voice.

The job, and with it Klyde's general well-being became even less important in the face of the woman's impish little face. It was a slight, an offence, a big meat-shaped flag waved at a hungry rancor!

“Wha-!”

The slicer, no longer perched upon his stool finally saw the sense to remove his high-tech googles and rejoin the real world, only to find that it was probably better not to be present. There were several questions within his bulbous head. Who is holding me? Is it a lady? Why are they holding me? Is she hot? Am I going to die? Some of these questions were even said out loud.

“Wh-what happened? Who are y-you wuh-working for?” Klyde stammered in nerd-ridden fear to the woman behind him, who was apparently holding him hostage.

“Who gives a kark,” came Sam's ever philosophical input through gritted teeth as she continued to stare daggers at the red-eyed stealth monster.

“What!? Y-you're supposed to be pa-puh-protecting me!”

Way down the list of priorities now, buddy. Okay, maybe if he didn't die that would still be a success, right? Yeah? In the Mandalorian's head that seemed to be perfectly fair. Yeah. New mission parameters. Keep the cowardly slicer alive. That sounded doable.

Ish.

“Ya get one chance ta let 'im go,” Rodarch drawled with the stiffest jaw this side of Kelada, hands already raised for a brawl, “otherwise, I'mma go through 'im to get ta you.”

Wait, that didn't sound like it would keep him alive at all!

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Vella liked the woman's cut to the chase approach. She wouldn't have delivered the answer of who she was working for so readily, but she managed to evade it entirely with the woman'd disinterest.

Adjusting her hold on the slicer, she took one of his wrists and twisted it behind his back so she could push him forward and use him to help navigate from her position. A wicked grin spread across her mouth at the adaptation techniques Sam Rodarch was choosing to adopt. The body language complemented the targeted hissing from the woman's mouth, and the inquisitor realized she would be guaranteed a brawl. She lowered her voice near where she assumed the slicer's ear was, pressing close to him. "You hear that? It's safer for you with me. She's going to punch right through you."

Sam's draconian approach would exponentially work in her favour.

Meanwhile, they were starting to attract attention. Thankfully, one of the people that were interested in their exchange was Vella's pilot, and he was slowly attempting to set course to relieve the asset from the Vahla. The darn maze obstacles were intruding on the efficiency of his trajectory.

She maneuvered from having her back pressed against the bar, side stepping out more into the open and across from Sam, keeping her grip tight on the asset and applying pressure when she wanted him to move. The generosity of the abyssal woman knew no bounds. A whole one chance!

"Generous of you. Are you going to count to three, too?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Poor Klyde.

Sandwiched between two frightening women, he couldn't help but give out the most undignified yelp as his wrist was twisted behind his back, causing him to drop his goggles as he was manoeuvred by his would-be captor.

The voice in his ear (or whatever the duros equivalent was) made a lot of sense. His bodyguard had just threatened to punch right through him and by the gods, her fists were already raised! Was this the standard of Darkwire contractors? He had expected an imposing badass, half-cyborg with arm cannons and a mysterious past. Merciless, yet completely professional. His work was important, he deserved more respect!

“Sam!” he squeaked, pointing the quivering finger of his free hand at the Mandalorian, “I-I order you to suh-stand down!”

She blinked, her stare finally budging from one set of red eyes to another, a new variety of fury beginning to spread across Sam's face (it was actually quite impressive that she held so many different ways to look mad). There wasn't even time for her rage to be enacted properly as the woman in black started to get increasingly cheeky.

Crunch.

A heavy boot slammed down upon Klyde's dropped goggles, this too giving him another reason to squeal like a terrified princess as Sam's turbulent frustration was taken out upon his valuable equipment.

“Y-y-you brute! Do you know how much those cost?!”

“No.”

That short, blunt answer was for both of them as the notion of both counting to three and protecting the slicer had all but completely vanished in the face of their snark and attitude. With not a single drop of hesitation, Rodarch took one momentous step forward before sending a heavy right kick towards Klyde's midsection, hoping that the force (and his probable flailing) would be enough to stagger the woman behind him.

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

The order to stand down came from the Duros to Sam. That hadn't been part of the plan. Obvious surprise flitted across Vella's face. In all her hunting and gathering expeditions, no target had so willingly acquiesced to her suggestion. Playing the good cop role was foreign but for the sake of this unique circumstance, she'd wholeheartedly accept it.

Her dark brows quirked even further upwards when Sam Rodarch stomped on the Duros' expensive goggles, and Vella hoped that the creature didn't lose all usefulness without his eyepieces.

There was no count. There was only a single objection. The fist-forward woman seemed to favour her soles, and after stomping the eyewear, she turned to the owner of the goggles. An indicative flare tickled the nape of Vella's neck, and she scrambled to figure out how to react. While she was thinking about just tossing the blue alien to the side, she was shoved backward. The connection of the woman's kick to Klyde's gut was astounding, and he used his free hand to try and balance himself. Meanwhile, Vella was struggling to keep them both upright. She stomped backward on the defensive a few times in an attempt to stay upright. She failed.

Without further adieu, she found herself on her backside with the big-headed slicer on top of her. "UGH!" She pushed him off and to the side, shifting her body weight from her shoulders forward to leap back up. Two feet connected at the ankles with a trajectory for Sam's chest. With her opponent's obvious decision to keep this to bodyweight, Vella made the internal decision to respect the boundaries of the duel and not withdraw her weapons.

Coming up on the peripheral was her pilot. Unfortunately the nature of Lorana's Labyrinth meant that he dodged in and out of view due in part to the movement of the curious patrons and the machinations of the building itself.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Oh, that felt good.

Like finally managing to itch that spot on your back that you just couldn't reach. Rodarch never considered why such brute violence gave her primal satisfaction, probably best not to, really. The reasons were surely not complimentary, although it would have likely been a very attractive prospect for a therapist.

She smirked as the pair fell, savouring the squealing gasps for breaths that eeked out of Klyde and the irritated grunt that erupted from the woman in black. The slicer (who was clearly not very accustomed to getting booted in the gut) was discarded on the floor and left to roll around trying to find the ability to breathe normally once again.

No more than he deserved after trying to order her about like some common lackey.

Her internal smugness was short-lived, as the woman, her real point of interest sprung from the ground like some damned gymnast, feet planting themselves directly upon Rodarch's chest and giving her a one-way pass to the floor alongside everybody else. A heavy blow, that familiar throb of pain indicating future bruising.

Unexpected. She was a spry one. She didn't look like a spry one, but the pair of shoe prints now imprinted upon her chest said otherwise. A grunt, as with less elegance Sam scrambled back to her feet, offering a vicious grin to her opponent once she was the right way up again.

Fists up. Little hesitation to go forward again. The Mandalorian clearly favoured leading with her left foot, and in tandem with that, her left hand. Seemed like she was going to throw a punch straight into the woman's face but at the last moment, Rodarch pivoted sharply on her foot, instead, throwing her left elbow at the side of the gothic gymnast's head.

Elbows were a great way to draw blood, and what was a brawl without blood?

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Vella had landed in a crouch, grinning wickedly as she focused on the downward collision between the short-haired brute and the ground. This woman had affixed herself as an obstacle to the Inquisitor, and as such had to be eliminated. Or at the very least flattened. With the time the hired security took to scramble and right herself, Vella had taken a step back to gather her physical bearings once more.

Verily, she could have struck out with a telekinetic blow that devastated the bone structure of the woman, but her fists were beginning to become dusty after spending so much time on Bastion focused on her bladework. Selfishly, the hand-to-hand combat this makeshift sparring arena provided would do wonders for her overall duel game. So, like a cat playing with it's mousey food, Vella played into the footwork dance.

As the rules went, it was the Mandalorian's turn. She seemed winded, and the Vahl's pale lips deepened in their crooked, knowing grin. Without ceremony, Sam lunged forward. A jab coming in from the left for Vella -- which likely meant the woman wanted to put more space between them. Alas, Vella misread that. The trajectory she tracked moved fluidly and quickly and without more warning (like not counting to three), bone cracked against bone. Something in her cheek erupted while she was forced to twist down to the right. Her eyes bulged while an involuntarily stream of saliva and blood spew from her lips.

She rolled with the punch, and twisted down to her right hand, landing with the palm on the sticky ground. It was like Lorana washed the floor with ale! She'd ruminate on the poor hygeine of the establishment later. In the meantime, both her right foot and hand were on the ground and she swept her left leg around to knock against Sam's ankles to bring her down again. Still rolling, whether or not that left foot connected, she planted it and rotated her body so all the weight was now on her left foot and her right one was coming down in a powerful stomp meant either for the downed lackey's shin or..the floor.

Meanwhile, Klyde was scrambling to stand, heaving himself up on a barstool and shaking while all this went on in front of him. He'd never been so close to the action before! And he never wanted to again. Then, for the second time that night, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder -- except this time, when he turned to look at the person arresting him, it was a chiseled man rather than a goth babe.

"Don't worry." The pilot offered, nodding his head to the black-haired brawler. "I'm with her."

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Oh, there it was. Flash of crimson. The very sight of the stuff spurred on adrenaline, made Rodarch face light up with a primal, toothy grin (which also revealed a distinct lack of a few teeth here and there).

Wasn't much time to react or go again, as her opponent kept things very fluid, much to Sam's frustration. The woman in black managed to sweep her leg, and once again the Mandalorian was left catching confusing reflections in the warped, mirrored ceiling. It was in that reflection that she caught a glance of her supple foe still in manoeuvre, as the stomp connected fully with Rodarch's left shin.

It was painful enough to cause a small shout to erupt from the former-shockboxer, the briefest flash of concern coming over her features before once again being replaced by violent fervour.

“Oh! Th-thu-thank...the stars!” Klyde half wheezed at the pilot, clinging to the handsome fellow as if he were a princess in need of rescuing and not an oft-maligned slicer, “Pu-please...get me... out of here! Th-they're crazy!"

What a coward.

Sam didn't give a kark, the list of priorities had been scrapped about two minutes after having been discovered. There were more pressing matters at hand, like the decline in her mobility, which was made entirely evident by the gingerly manner in which Rodarch returned to her feet. Her right ankle was already injury-plagued, now her left shin painfully buzzed, each ounce of weight put upon it sending awkward discomfort up Sam's spine.

“...feth!”

It made sense in the realm of a fight, slow down your opponent and make it easier to dance around them as they stumbled in injury.

The solution? One part tenacity, three parts not letting go.

Sam lurched forward awkwardly, feigning that she was about to fall flat on her face upon that first stagger forwards (which karking hurt to do, by the way) but as she did a hand launched out to grab the woman's black linen neckline in a durasteel grip. If the Mandalorian managed to grab her clothing, she aimed to pull that tattooed face into her own waiting forehead.

Nothing like a headbutt to spice things up.

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Thankfully for the Pilot and renegade slicer, Sam’s list was ever fluctuating and right now the pair of dudes was at the bottom. And we all know what happens to the last item of a To-Do list —- it remains eternally unfinished. And so, with the opening given to him, and the surprising willingness of the would-be prisoner, he elected to attempt to slink away from the scene and make course for their shuttle. Weaving out of the cantina would be time consuming enough. At least his gothic passenger had The Force or something to help her out. So, he and Klyde maneuvered backward and away.

Meanwhile, the Inquisitor had no time to even wipe her mouth. Action begged her attention, and the duel-hungry sithling was enjoying her morsels. Even the taste of metal in her own mouth spurred her on — a reminder to not allow such treachery against her happen again. Her teeth gnashes together in fury, she dwell on the hatred boiling in her blood; the ferocity and myopic intent of the savage Sam was delicious and turned out to be exactly what Vella needed.

She stepped forward to peer in on her success while the Mandalorian teetered about with her wounds. She licked her lips, met with spit and blood and...surprise! A hand snatched out to her collar, yanking her to her toes and forward. A forehead drove into her own and she groaned, clamping down on her tongue on the impact and letting out a wail that was partly embarrassment and mostly pain.

Wrenching herself backward, she shouldered into the woman to stagger away, clutching her head. Her eyesight was bleary, and her tongue was swollen and cut. All the could taste was blood, and a black vignette was starting to shape around her vision.

Feth this. She’d played into the brute’s hands far enough. She was a superior warrior, and the bruising and battering up to this point could no longer be sustained. With a growl that belonged to a lupine, Vella’s gloved hand snapped outward. A bellow of invisible wind torrented from her shoulder through her arm and out her palm, exploding out at the Mandalorian.

Finding the time to finally wipe the back of her arm across her mouth, she ended up just smearing the liquid that now poured from her nose and gums down her chin, a wicked grin creeping from ear to ear while her crimson glare flared. “Sorry,” she feigned a pout, drawing her arms out again to goad the woman back with a two-finger coercion “Was that cheating?”

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The noble headbutt, truly one of the greatest creations in the galaxy.

Forget what you think you know about greatness, about sliced bread and outfits with deep pockets, the headbutt conquered all. People willing to damage themselves in the name of violence. The horrendous crack of impact. An explosion of potential concussions. The blood that so often pissed forth from superficial head wounds.

It was perfection.

If not a bit stupid.

Sam's memory of that exact moment was a seizure written in black and white, as her vision turned to static. Miraculously, a few seconds later the Mandalorian found herself somehow still standing, well, kind of. She was leaning on the bar, sprawled as if her subconscious had taken a trip to the twilight zone in the briefest of time.

Crimson trickled down her forehead, it's warmth a pleasant reminder of such vicious delights. Perhaps years down the line in a world of post-concussion syndrome Rodarch would regret moments like these, but it was not this day.

She was ready to go again, pushing herself off the bar as that awful feeling pronged up her shin on first momentum. Fist was already curled in anticipation, ready to grant the woman's kidney a kiss that would leave her pissing blood for a week.

This never came to pass as an unseen force blasted the Mandalorian across the bar and directly into a mirrored wall with terrible force as if it were the galaxy's worst rollercoaster. Back and head smashed against the glass as it shattered in a gloriously expensive scene and Sam landed upon the sticky floor in a crumpled heap, face first.

Now that was a sore one and a second probable concussion only about half a minute apart.

The future bruise that would be her entire shoulders throbbed in rhythm with the pain upon the back of her head, a hand not-so-carefully reaching up to feel the new wound, complete with glass shards and even more blood.

As she looked up, Rodarch was faced with the sight and sound of the apparent Force user, taunting from what was now half-way across the bar. Perhaps there should have been a concern for Klyde? Who was now nowhere to been seen and apparently wanted by a very interesting woman? No, not even a thought. A lot of anger though, you could see it in the wild whites of her eyes.

“Fethin'...piece'a...shet...forcie,” Sam growled as she returned to her feet again, her injured stagger more akin to mild brain damage than a wonky leg. Tactical thoughts on how to approach this were lost, replaced by her fast-acting blind rage as Rodarch began to power towards her foe.

“Yer karkin' dead!”

Hand snatched up a barstool on the way, luckily nobody was sitting on it and soon it was being wielded one-handed like the most awkward blunt-force weapon. The pace quickened on her lop-sided gait, intentions completely clear as she closed the gap between them.

It was a pretty heavily telegraphed move as Sam, still holding the stool by the leg in her right hand swung the furniture in a wide arc at her opponent.

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

All that venomous hate toward the wretch turned into pitiful amusement. She was proud of her ability to humour the woman in a contest of fists for a few rounds, but that was all over now. Vella had acquired her target, and her time and patience were running thin. By now, her pilot should at least be outside the cantina, if not fully en route back to their platform.

The Mandalorian was activated again. Charging from her surroundings of broken shards and scrambling to gather whatever sort of melee weapon she could land her hands on. It was now that Vella registered the woman didn't seem to have any guns. If she was armed, now would have been as good a time as ever to show it.

Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth, the noise a replica of a scolding mother. Tsk tsk.

All Vella had to do now, was duck. She crouched, lowering her centre of gravity while the stool swung overhead. The wind of it passing ruffled her layers and hair a bit, but there was no connection. Keeping one foot planted firmly, the Vahla pivoted so she was behind the Mandalorian, her arms stretched behind her back. A distance away, the broken pieces of glass from Sam Rodarch 's earlier fall began to quiver and shake while invisible tendrils encircled them.

With an appropriate level of flair and showmanship, Vella's arms swept forward, her wrists rolling so her palms faced Sam and her fingers lazily pointed as if she were a maestro. The orchestra a torrent of mirror shards that maneuvered from their fallen position, and through the air toward the short-haired woman.

"You're a terrible guard, Sam." Vella observed, before letting her arms drop, and with it, any remaining shards that hadn't pierced anything. They fell to the ground in a cacophony of tinkering and further smashing. "You can't even protect yourself."

 

[Sam Rodarch]

That tiny voice of reason (the one that fruitlessly makes the list of priorities in the first place) was upset. It was no surprise as to why. Samantha Rodarch didn't tend to ever hear those minuscule suggestions of sense and clarity. Impulse this. Rage that. No time to just stop, think and listen to the reasons of why swinging a bar stool at an ominously-dressed Force user while injured was a bad idea.

Too slow. Too aggressive. Too predictable. Swing-and-a-miss as her opponent dodged away, remaining perfectly frustrating with constant movement.

Forced to turn with stool still in hand the Mandalorian was not confronted by a conventional attack, but instead by flying shards of glass. Adrenaline-fuelled instinct called for her face and neck to be protected from a potentially fatal assault, the seat of the stool being used as a handy shield.

Thunk. Thunk. Shink. Thunk.

Sharp pain.

The stool was dropped upon the ground, it's cushioned seat now perforated by shards of glass as if it were designed for medieval haemorrhoid removal. The woman behind it was similarly perforated, or at least her body was. The damage seemed to be mostly superficial, lacerations that bacta patches and a week off work could have handled.

Well, except for one particularly large and jagged shard that was stuck so prominently in the woman's chest. Mercifully, not her heart but fire that came alongside each newly drawn breath was a worrying indication that a lung had been pierced. Sam looked down at the shard, eyes wide and wild as her opponent continued to taunt, once again using her name as if she even knew her.

You need to stop. There's that little voice of reason, trying it's hardest. You're hurt. Get out. Get help. It's okay to run away. But it wasn't okay. She'd wanted this. Wanted the fight, the violent satisfaction that only blood granted, the adrenaline that came from pain. It's over. No. The red mist was still there. Still so fething mad. Hated that she played dirty. Hated that little smirk. Hated the way that little gothic shitebag kept saying her name. Truth be told, the hatred probably kept her standing.

If you're gonna be dumb, you've got to be tough.

Poor voice of reason.

Instead of taking any inner-advice Rodarch foolishly went again, practically growling as she aimed a vicious right-footed snap-kick at her opponent's knee, hoping to hyperextend the joint and render it completely useless.

Vella Forte

 

[Vella Forte]

Absorbed in her gloating, Vella miscalculated the approach of the tenacious woman. The heavy heeled boot connected against the cartilage of her knee joint and she screamed out in anguish. While her skeleton was created to be more flexible, it didn't deny the pressure of a direct impact. It pushed her leg backward, and almost collapsed in on itself - instead, she teetered forward, desperately she reached out to stop herself from falling.

Her hand stretched toward Sam, flailing near her chest and gripping out on something that stuck out. Something far less than a fleshy reward and something more piercing. Gloved hands were met with the sharp edges of the very large, very stubbourn mirror wedge. The leather peeled away, and as she fell downward, her own skin was punctured by the edges and gave way to more hot blood. She gasped out in pain, stomping backward on her good hand and releasing the glass shard, using her free hand to project an extension of telekinesis that helped repulse herself from slamming against the ground.

Now she was mad. Her own pain made her furious.

With a final gust of full-RARGH! energy, she finally ignited her blade. It had been holstered this entire time at her hip, but as she willed it alive, it snapped to her palm and FZZZtT'd to life. A brilliant, red blade projected upward from the ground she'd been pointed toward and in an arc; cauterizing and cutting through any thing that dared cross it's wake. Her breath was heavy, panting. Blood poured down her face and her knee was practically inverted now, the menacing glow of her scarlet sword only made the shadowy lighting on her face more sinisiter.

"That's my property!" Lorana called out from behind the bar, finally emerging from some back room after someone had reported a messy ruckus. Her pruned fist was shaking, voice strained from both age and fury. "You punks are destroying my upholstery!" While some men gifted jewellery to their beloved, perhaps the finest silver from the north of somewhere, Lorana asked for trinkets to spruce up her hospitality space. And she had a zero tolerance policy with her private property being used in brawls. Force, Guns, Swords -- whatever persons had on themselves when they got started was well and good. Her accessories contributing to contention? Absolutely not. "Get them OUT of here!!"

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There wasn't time to enjoy the horrendous sight of the woman's leg almost bending the wrong way, because the first thing grabbed to prevent her fall was the shard of glass.

Yes, that shard of glass.

As tough as Rodarch was, she wasn't tough enough to grin and bear the nerve-curdling pain that erupted as the glass embedded in her lung was instinctively wrenched upon. A scream erupted from the Mandalorian's mouth, which was then promptly followed by some kind of haggard, coughing inhale. That didn't feel ideal.

The little voice shook its little head as Sam's much louder, much angrier inner voice demanded follow-up upon the kick. You're going to di-FINISH IT!

Teeth gritted through the agony, a fist was drawn back, ready to deliver what would hopefully be a fight-ending haymaker. It all seemed to go in slow motion (hopefully not due to head trauma) as her right hand was thrown in tandem with the eruption of red light.

Lightsaber met forearm.

It was quite strange, as the woman observed a portion of her own arm fly away from the rest of her body. It was less strange when the searing pain followed, mostly because the white-hot agony was the only point of her existence at that moment (sorry, Lorana).

As the owner of the bar shook a fist and demanded immediate ejection for the pair Rodarch's engine finally gave out, the former-shockboxer collapsing to her knees as her brain continued to send forth explosive signals of HELP and PAIN that smothered any fires of fury that tried to rage onwards.

Any remaining shred of her wits grabbed at the black linen of her opponent as Sam summoned every ounce of cognitive strength to keep herself from falling forward onto the shard.

“Ffff.....aa...aack...”

Nobody knew exactly what the Mandalorian was trying to say through shock-based, lung-punctured gurgles. It was probably some kind of swear.

Vella Forte