One step ahead as the fight commenced, Itzhal pulled back as the thermal detonator exploded, and Rellik was forced to cover under a hail of bolts that tore through everything in their path. The cover included as pieces of masonry were punched through, sending superheated shards of melted stone everywhere, as the room was reduced to little more than crumbling walls and dust-covered floors. Shafts of red-tinted light seeped in through the holes as a chill breeze rattled against the boiling warmth of a firefight.
"I'm a little old for dancing," Itzhal responded as he stepped back through the doorway, his blaster raised and pointed towards the approaching Sith Lord.
The next shot, aimed towards the darjetii's torso, was blocked by a boulder that rose between them. The bright bolt smashed against the surface and dug deep until a visible hole bore straight through, though not before a second splash of rubble flourished between them, a veritable defence that his blaster wasn't quite able to penetrate. Not before the remnants of his first strike were sent hurtling back, the sheer force tearing the stone apart until it was more akin to a scatter blast than a single projectile; as Itzhal tried to spin with the impact, the armour on his right shoulder crumpled but held in place long enough for him to back off.
He'd give the imperials props for one thing: at least their armour could handle some punishment, even if his shoulder throbbed from the blow.
Compared to the other rubble, the table should have been easier to punch through with a blaster rifle capable of melting durasteel; despite that, however, it handled the first volley as Diarch began to close the distance between them, a few bolts splattered across the surface, before the following sequence tore through in another wave of splinters and shrapnel as more and more of the hallway warped and twisted, slithering its way between the two like a living shield.
He ducked as another piece of the wall collapsed inwards, screeching metal and torn pipes rattling before they ruptured, narrowly avoiding the Mandalorian's throat as he sidestepped another incoming piece of the ceiling above and pointed his blaster not towards his target, protected as they where by a maelstrom of rage but towards the roof above their head.
Another shot rang out, trying to drop enough dust and debris upon Diarch to create an opening as Itzhal lined up the last shot of his energy cell straight towards the Sith's face. Shrouding the corridor in a haze of burning red light before even that was dwarfed by the azure glow that blossomed behind them, heat billowing in an instant as the equivalent of a bomb erupted, turning metal to slag and scorching whatever remained with a coating of deep black ash that coiled along the walls.
Forcing Itzhal to pick up the pace as the fire crept closer to his position, one hand kept his rifle aimed up in search of Diarch's body, covered as it was by the mixture of rubble and flickering flames. His other hand moved like clockwork as it traced along the side of his weapon, uncovering the release catch as he flicked away an energy cell before replacing it with another, ready to fire once again.
At least until the floor beneath him began to crumple inwards, another barrage of heat tearing through the building until it was left to skitter on its last legs. As the ceiling above crumpled inwards, a set of chairs tumbled through a fracture in the stressed surface before they shattered upon the ground, another crack left in their wake. His boots slipped forward as the rest of him continued to move backwards; one hand reached out for a ruptured pipe, the metal slick against his grip but just enough to hold on as the stonework collapsed, tearing the foundations away.
Beneath him, a dark abyss awaited, edged only by the few remains that lingered, holding on as the corridor continued to deteriorate.
His other hand lifted away from the rifle, forced to grip the pipe as it shuddered under the heavy weight of him and the Imperial armour. Strained metal screeched in torment as the smoke began to clot out the flicker of flames, gasping sparks of light in the darkness, suffocating in a final wave of thick smog.
Throwing his weight against the pipe through the screeches, Itzhal shimmied along, straining his muscles under the exertion and heat that clung to his bodysuit. A fine layer of sweat formed across his upper back as he reached the wall. One hand pressed against it for support until he made a stumbling step out of the building and into the light.
Straight into view of the Sithspawn that had interrupted their fight, her unexpected form bringing Itzhal to a pause when instincts called for him to raise his blaster and put a few rounds in her chest. Even after a second, he wasn't sure what he was looking at as his eyes trailed across the Mandalorian mask, visibly sculpted to fit across her face in a way that left him wondering how she'd brought it into the arena rather than planning how to rip it from the cold dead hands of a beast that dared to wear Mandalorian Iron.
Muffled by the seals of his helmet, words slipped from Itzhal's mouth,
"Me'ven?"
His eyes lingered on the unnatural weapons that spread across her form, from the spindly tendrils that peeked out above her shoulders to the extra arms ending in razor-sharp talons and the long curve of a deadly tail coated with something he had no intention of encountering. Not that it looked like he would have much choice as the feminine figure spoke, one hand raised in display of an obsidian coin that matched his own, as she offered an opportunity to part ways or just an attempt to lower their guard.
Considering she just dropped a building on him, he wasn't particularly inclined.
Judging the distance between himself and those claws, Itzhal looked across the streets, aware the singing had echoed over rooftops and shattered skyscrapers; he knew it wasn't a matter of outrunning her. His helmet panned slowly across the horizon as his eyes settled upon a nearby sewer grate, though he forced himself to continue past it, unwilling to bring attention to his way out. He needed a distraction, either to annoy or keep her talking.
"What? We've got five days. Are you impatient or worried about running on fumes?"
He was running low on stock himself; the thermal detonator he'd thrown was one of three stored in the cache, another he'd left behind expecting to finish off an unfortunate scavenger, at least before the entire building was turned to rubble. The third was sitting in a pouch on the right side of his belt, close to the two other grenades he'd been fortunate to acquire. He had a feeling if whoever had given her that mask was any good, then the flashbang would be little more than a temporary distraction rather than a day-long incapacitation.
That left only one other grenade, the weight of it a reminder in his head as he wondered what a spider would look like tied up in webs.
Such was a matter of her next steps as he prepared to pull back to the doorway of another building, aware she might launch another strike, though he'd figured out it had something to do with her head, the haze of heat that lingered around visible like a mirage in the desert. If she lunged, he'd fire a couple of shots, trying to stall as he retreated to the cover of another enclosed space. A potentially tempting target if she was so inclined to fight in melee as her form suggested, though he knew every plan was merely a concept, shifting as it met the enemy.
Who knows, maybe they'd all sit and chat.
Lady Nightmare
