Boost THE FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH - RUMBLE ON RUUSAN

[Mercy]

Xeykard

He grabbed her, talons digging into flesh through the gaps of her armor and Mercy growled in hurt.

But before the lizard could smash her into the wall, her own hands snatched out, grabbing him by the shoulder, the elbow. Her body crushed into the wall and it cracked behind her. Mercy used that momentum, that explosion of energy and force to yank him in using the Force. Suddenly there would be pull right where he committed his push.

To pull him off balance and force him to the ground with Mercy on top.

So the tank of a woman could smash her forehead into his snout. It probably wouldn't have been a smart idea, big skull, hard, except that there was a blue shine all along her body now... and Mercy was grinning like a karking mad woman.

 

[Kyric]

Metal scraped on the old locker room floor as the door swung open. The bottom corner—opposite the hinge—had seemingly chipped at some point, leaving a fragment of durasteel to easily carve a small groove in the duracrete. Fabric tore as the interloper worked his way through the doorway, a clear enough design-flaw if Kyric had ever seen one.

Velok's size, partnered with an outrageous amount of muscle, left Kyric momentarily speechless. The kiffar stared blankly at the giant as he considered the chances the stranger was sent to kill or stall him between rounds. It wouldn't be a stretch given the force-cage dropped on the Jedi last round. Someone out there had it out for him, likely an after-effect of Ryv's polarizing life.

Kyric relaxed a smidge at Velok's opening statement. Far too trusting for his own good, Kyric climbed to his feet with a soft grunt and turned to face his guest without a weapon in hand.

It helped that Tansu—his vornskr—sat tucked away in the corner behind the door, poised to strike in the event of an assassination attempt.

"Okay, er-" Kyric started, then paused for a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "That all sounds purty kickass, Mister Brokentusk. I've known a Sith or two to do a lil' too much laughin'."

This guy looked like the exact type of ally the Lightsworn needed—a walking tank with a gift for fortune-telling.

"I'm small potato among the Lightsworn. My master, Inosuke Ashina, is the High Lord. If yer lookin' to join up, ye'll wanna head on over to Atrisia. He or the Lady of the House, Lady Henna, can get ye sorted."

Kyric fished out a wayfinder attuned to the Light and tossed it to Velok. "That should help ye find yer way there quick-like." He stepped over the bench closer to Velok, then dropped back down into a seated position. "If ye got a gift fer the bones, I'm curious. Can ye do a readin' for me? I'm up against a tough cookie, and it ain't gettin' any easier after him. Wouldn't hurt to get a feel for my fate."

---

Tags: Velok Brokentusk
Honorable Mentions: Henna Ashina | Inosuke Ashina

 

[Velok Brokentusk]

"If ye got a gift fer the bones, I'm curious. Can ye do a readin' for me? I'm up against a tough cookie, and it ain't gettin' any easier after him. Wouldn't hurt to get a feel for my fate."

That had gone much better than it could have.

The wayfinder disappeared into the trenchcoat. Velok eased out a handful of carved knucklebones in lieu and cast it on a locker-room bench. Not a one of them dared to skitter off. Velok squatted to squint, making himself about one human tall.

"You face a man who's made himself into an unfeeling killing machine. Feel better than him. Be more than a Jedi; be a man. Know yourself, your body, your heart, whether you can touch the Force or not. Be simple, be strong, a living thing and not an entertainer. Come to terms with what it feels like to be beaten. Only then will you find your best chance to win."

He scooped up the knucklebones and half-stood, bumping his head on the ceiling.

"Or so the bones suggest. Best of luck, Karis."

 

[Koda Fett]

The alien was sent scampering off, now in need of a new holo-puck display.

The T-visor trailed after him for a moment, watching, before turning to Fenn. A somewhat familiar face, now belonging to a dead man. A concept Fett understood well enough, though whatever camaraderie that could have come from it never did. His nature was cruel, after all - had to be in order to succeed in this line of work, and no one was more successful.

"I always do," he said with an air of deserved arrogance. He continued to tinker with the wiring, nodding his helmet to the display of the brackets. "If you want your shot, you'll have to wait until the final bout."

Fenn Stag

 

[Mauve du Vain]

The boiling lava forming the surface of the arena began to hiss and steam.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ARE YOU READY TO BEGIN THE THIRD ROUND?”

The hissing grew louder, the steam now rising in voluminous clouds, concealing the entire surface of the arena behind a condensation layer so thick it appeared like a sauna.

A sudden geyser of water burst from the midst of the arena and the sound of rushing water became overpowering. As the steam dissipated, it revealed that the lava had cooled and hardened, but was swiftly disappearing beneath a lake of water.

“What you are seeing is four MILLION gallons of salt water pumped into the arena. And those cages being lowered in… Yes those are in fact mutated firaxan sharks!”

The beasts thrashed wildly before they were let loose from cages and splashed into the water.

Hoverfreighters lowered huge platforms onto the surface of the water, which floated placidly.

“BEHOLD! THE GREAT PLANET OF MANAAN AND ITS FLOATING CITIES!”

The not-Marka Ragnos announcer zoomed around on a hover pod, holding something aloft in his hands.

“AND ITS SEAS….” He snapped the vial and tossed it down into the water far below. A thick, pungent green ichor spilled out from the vial and began to pollute the surface of the arena lake. “POISONED!”

“YES, THAT’S RIGHT, THIS ROUND REPRESENTS THE BATTLE OF MANAAN AND ALL THOSE WHO FOUGHT AND DIED THERE SO LONG AGO!”

Smaller buoys bobbed in the midst of the lake, strange bundles attached to them.

“EVEN A SMALL DIP IN THE LAKE MEANS CERTAIN DEATH… BUT THERE ARE SOME ANTIDOTES, CONVENIENTLY BUOYED ACROSS THE ARENA! USE RESPONSIBLY, THERE’S ONLY FOUR!.”

Of course, the contestants could also use abilities to purge the toxins from their system too, but where was the fun in announcing that to the audience?

“LET THE QUARTER FINALS OF THE GALACTIC KAGGATH, BEGIN!”

​

 

[Fenn Stag]

He stood up slowly, glancing down at the bacta patch on his stomach. He turned to stare at the Bounty Hunter.

“You would rue the day if you did.”

So matter of factly, he said it. No cruelty, no malice, no hate. Just a simple statement, almost truth to those who might’ve heard it. Perhaps it was a measure of confidence that Fenn had. Perhaps it was a testament to his tenacity. To his lineage.

Or perhaps, it was true. Or at least- Fenn would make it true.

Fenn left Koda alone for the time being. He knew the man was going to need to focus- and he had no intention of interfering with his work.

Koda Fett

 

[Xeykard]

Crunch. Broken nose, skull to snout, through Barabel scales. Surprisingly enough, a new experience for Xeykard -- any fight with him was rough, but rarely like this. He smelled his own blood, and only that, and it disgusted him. Not only did the pain dig into his skull, but his senses were shot; his head bobbed blindly for a moment before his grip tightened again.

He snorted, splattering green blood across her, oozing and toxic to taste, and struggled against her hold, grappling and vying for any leverage he could. She was on top, but his claws were in. He hurled them sideways, twisting himself free long enough to scramble to his feet. He didn't leave long, keeping low to tackle her, only half registering what position she was in before slamming his body into her, and hoping to connect next with the wall again.

Mercy ​

 

[Antar]

Thok-thok-thok-thok-thok!

Straddling the bench in his quarters, Antar sharpens his focus in preparation for the next round. With his palm flat on the bench and his fingers splayed, he repeatedly stabs the spaces in between with the Devaronian blood-poison dagger. The risk of one scratch ruining all of Antar's recovering time honed his senses to a fine edge. His opponent is on his last legs but that made the Mandalorian no less dangerous. Antar would go into the next round in his absolute best condition.

When the stage and call for the next round to begin is announced, Antar stops his warm-up and sheathes the dagger with a flourish.

He leaves behind all of the gear prepped for him to face Whotto except for the armor and dagger, and Antar makes his way to the arena.

 

[Velok Brokentusk]

Inside the skybox, Mauve sat in her chair, surrounded by current or former Sith emperors

After leaving The Kyric Karis Locker Room Sponsored By Nikky Priddy, Velok knelt and shuffled a deck of cards. He dealt a triad on a dead man's chest.

In prime place, the One-Eared Gundark. Not the best sign, far from the worst.

In apprentice place, the Five Buckets. He winced.

In nemesis place, inverted, he laid down what proved to be the Svelte King, a horrible card under any circumstances. It completely recontextualized the Five Buckets and shifted the One-Eared Gundark into a whole other genre.

With some irritation, Velok put his cards away and used a ritual knife to cut the back of his forearm. Through every space available inside the base of the skybox, and not many spaces could prevent themselves from becoming available, he started splashing blood spray indiscriminately.

 

[Mauve du Vain]

Through every space available inside the base of the skybox, and not many spaces could prevent themselves from becoming available, he started splashing blood spray indiscriminately.

The door to the skybox conference room opened and a protocol droid butler toddled in.

Mauve turned, surprised, as the droid waddled up to her. "Bee-Pee Five, something wrong?"

"Madame, I don't mean to alarm you but there is a large mammalian being downstairs spraying its internal fluids everywhere."

Mauve blinked. "Come again?"

"Perhaps it would be better if I showed you, madame."

"Please don-"

The protocol droid called up an image on the view screen, which suddenly displayed a nine-foot Whiphid in a trench coat splashing blood all over the everything.

The Zeltron infobroker needed a moment to take in what was going on before looking down the row of faces - and helmets - at the table.

"Does this thing belong to any of you?"

Darth Adekos | Darth Empyrean | Aether Verd | Ashin Cardé Varanin | Darth Kentarch

 

[Darth Adekos]

RUUSAN​

Tyrin had been watching Fenn Stag and Antar square off when the feed cut and was replaced by the image of a whiphid shooting blood from its forearm, coating the walls, coating the floors, coating everything. He wrinkled his nose and held his glass out for the serving droid to fill back up. Which it promptly did.

"How unusual," he drawled. "Whiphids only do that when in distress."

Did this whiphid belong to someone here? An interesting thought. He inspected the other panelists to see who might fit the bill.

Empyrean would never keep company with a beast like that. It was not his style to tolerate the presence of big, ugly, smelly things. Adekos knew nothing of Verd except that he was some sort of Mandalorian peacemaker, signing treaties of love and friendship instead of fighting wars of conquest. So no, having an idiot hairy minion cause a scene did not fit his modus operandi, as it were.

Perhaps it belonged to Darth Kentarch.

No, he quickly realized. Darth Kentarch has no friends.

Adekos shrugged unhelpfully and sipped his wine. "It's not mine. Ask the Empress."

Mauve du Vain Ashin Cardé Varanin​

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

"Does this thing belong to any of you?"

Adekos shrugged unhelpfully and sipped his wine. "It's not mine. Ask the Empress."

"The only Whiphid I knew was Velok the Elder, who's been dead seventy years."

Ashin squinted at the display.

"And that behaviour seems inconsistent with a being who could collaborate with Lord Dissero to steal your entire archive, Adekos. So, no."

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

Subsequently, Ashin's attention rested primarily on Creed versus Mercy. A fog had been conjured. It annoyed her. She wanted to see the fight better for commentating purposes.

Under the table, she sent 50,000 to Razmir Tezhyn , copying Mauve du Vain on it, and requested the appearance of some sort of giant fan.

"I am aggrieved by that fog," she said balefully, pointing across the table at the fight in question. "It aggrieves me."

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

x

"Oh, Fett may be in trouble. That water's poisoned something fierce and his armour's clearly breached!" The left head of the Troig shout-caster duo exclaimed.

"That antidote's on the other side of this opponent too, oh this is a difficult position for Fett to find himself in. Let's see how he makes it out," the other head, more composed, replied into the mic.

"What was that?! Did Kyric just hand Fett the antidote? Is that legal?"

"By the Fifth Quaxion, he did! And now Fett's taking it! What a foolish mistake by the high-and-mighty Jedi!"

The Troig-twin casters shared a moment of high-pitched, mocking laughter over the broadcast.

Then they abruptly stopped.

"You win," he said, even with fight fresh in his voice.

The jaws on the Troig heads dropped simultaneously. Shocked gasps rolled through the audience.

"Koda Fett...just gave up."

"I can't believe this."

Announcer Rarka Magnos finally cut through the moment of stunned silence:

 

[Kyric]

Kota's words echoed in Kyric's ear louder than even the announcer's.

The kiffar heard the fire in his opponent's voice. Fett wasn't without options, nor did he lack the desire to keep up the fight. This was something else entirely. Victory found not in the throes of bloodlust, but compassion. The Bounty Hunter couldn't call himself the victor when lifted up from the muck by his very opponent; a 'high-and-mighty' Jedi Knight no less.

Whatever honor remained within the Manhunter demanded blood for blood. Kyric felt the simmering rage within Fett. This was a man born into dire circumstances, forced to do the unthinkable to survive. Shaped by such heinous living, Koda Fett knew nothing of compassion or kindness. His was a world bathed in blood and sin. Only the strongest survived. The weak were fodder; a means not only to survive the day, but thrive where nothing or no one else could.

When faced with Kyric Karis, a man who lived a life antithetical to Fett's, something had to give. And it wasn't going be the Bounty Hunter's legendary beskar'gam. The man behind the mask crumbled, instead.

Kyric's blade hovered inches from its mark. He withdrew his weapon, slipped it into the makeshift loop at his side, and peered deeply into Fett's T-visor, as if he could see what the Man hidden away from the rest of the galaxy.

"I'm gonna win this whole damn tournament, Fett." The kiffar didn't know why he said it. But it felt right. His blood boiled. His heart beat rapidly in his chest. "When all is said and done here, I'll stand at the top. Number One," he lifted a bandaged hand and pointed heavenward. "Invincible."

Just like you, Kyric wanted to say, but he bit his tongue and turned to depart.

A droid waited patiently at the edge of the platform, sent to ferry the semi-finalist back to the locker room to prepare for his next match.

---

Tags: Koda Fett

 

[Koda Fett]

“Go ahead,” said Fett flippantly.

In the tournament stands, the people cheered. Cheered for their Jedi champion. Droids swooped in and circled, his face plastered on screens around the tournament arena.

“If you do, come find me. Take your shot, I’ll take mine. See who comes out on top.”

He turned, and with platforms descended to make for an ease of exit, the Mandalorian bid his. In their next fight - a week, a month, a year from now - Fett would not allow himself to be so complacent.

Kyric

 

[Alcariel]

​

"What have they ever done for you? More than half probably would've bought you without a second thought, chains and all. So yeah, let them drown in it. Stick with me and I'll show you how."

In a world that had only shown her cruelty, why did she so readily pitch herself to cautious servitude? Who hesitated to exploit her? Nobody. Not even Mercy.

Mercy had seen power, and while she sought to grow Sael's abilities, it was only to stave off her own fear. Sael knew this. She'd seen it. All of Mercy. The superiority that cloaked her like armour. The performative calm that strained against something hungrier, something bottomless. The way the woman needed the world to cower so she wouldn't feel small. The way she was different in every atom to Sael. Mercy had fear, too. Not of her. But of losing control.

Realization dawned over Sael like a long, slow cast shadow broadening over a shoreline. Deep, dark and ready to conceal.

"You can start with stopping this nonsense. Can't believe she sent you off doing this, woman of your talents. Mercy's already got an ego the size of a small moon, what's there to inflate?"

For the first time in a long time, Sael's lips twitched to something like a half-smile.

"Oh but I'm merely stimulating what's already there. These people thirst for power, and if they see it in her, even if funnelled through me, I'm the one who will be rewarded."

It seemed straightforward enough. That seemed to be what happened with Mercy. She'd become delighted and Sael would get some token of affection.

As if to demonstrate that she was willing to listen to Isar, she lifted her hands from her lap and splay them out, separating her fingers wide and foregoing their harp-like ministrations. The ebb of the crowd did not change, though they seemed to catch on and amplify what Mercy was saying in a chorus of their own.

"I name you coward."

"COWARD! COWARD! COWARD!"

Sael looked unblinkingly at Isar: "Just a push, not a drag."

A sudden, unseen gust of wind wafted from the duelling grounds. It must have been the fans ordered by the commentator. Carried on the breeze was the scent of ozone and spice. Glitterstim, burnt open from the careless dump below, wafting its way through the upper rows. The effect was immediate and unnerving. Sael's pupils dilated, breath caught slightly as the drug-laced air mingled with her web. The crowd sharpened in her senses—every thrill, every fear, every secret, lit up like stars in a midnight field.

"What'shappening." She exhaled in a rush, stricken by the foreign, heavily manufactured sensory overload.

____________________________________________________________
Isar du Vain
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

x

As the duels concluded and chaperone droids led the surviving duelists back to the lockers, the water within the arena began to slowly drain away. Bit by bit the water level decreased, revealing glimpses of something beneath the surface, barely visible through the murk of the artificial sea.

High above, Rarka Magno with his false-scepter appeared once more as a great hologram to the audience.

"SURVIVORS! The quarterfinals have ended. We have seen a great upset this round already. But only one of four fights has been decided by true victory. The others required The Powers That Be to deliberate and discuss."

Rarka waved the great scepter once more, disguising how he fished an opened letter from his pocket. On that flimsi were the names of those who would advance to the next round.

"So without further ado,

"In the duel of Kyric versus Koda Fett with a victory by forcing his opponent to yield...

Spoiler

"In the duel of Mercy versus Drystan Creed ...

Spoiler

"In the duel of Antar versus Fenn Stag ...

Spoiler

"In the duel of Allyson Locke versus Arris Windrun ...

Spoiler

"PREPARE, for the Semifinals approach. Only four beings remain of the thirty who entered this Kaggath. And only one will come out victorious...yet who will it be? Find out, after the following messages from our sponsors."

 

[Arris Windrun]

Arris was fixed up something quick. Luckily, she brought spare legs, and those were simple enough to replace. It felt good not to worry about wrecked servos or a destroyed leg anymore. Or at least it would've, if the woman--the thing she was now--could feel such light thoughts.

When she walked into the locker room, she half-imagined the ghosts of CT-312 and Jacen Breska were there with her. It was still the first day when she offered her drugs, and when the mystery of Lucette walked in to interrupt them. The Bespin Gas logo lit up brilliantly above her locker.

When the Bespin Gas Company's logo came up, she grinned. "If you're not first, you're last!"

Who was she?

Am I still alive?

It felt like she had died in that last round. She looked down at her body, scarred and scorched, with synthetic parts fused to her flesh. She still felt open to the Force, too; it was new. Though whatever great power she had summoned in her last fight seemed to have dissipated. The force-sensitive cyber beast stunned the arena with unexpected power, but she had a lot to learn if she were ever to control it--to unleash it on her own terms.

She looked down at the bench, where her latest opponent's gear joined the rest... How odd. To see weapons and tools that nearly killed her now on display, so inert, yet she felt fragile rather than victorious. These weren't trophies; they were reminders of death.

Still, he was quick, his weapon deadly--the blade managed to slice her hand at the wrist before she could slip it free, and cut half her forearm off with it. This left her with a red-hot, pointy piece of metal for an arm below the elbow.

Most of all, Vagabond 's lightsaber, a weapon she had not touched. Now, her right arm was missing, taken clean off by the Sith Shadow during the last moments of their duel. She had no replacement for that. Already replaced both arms once over, and one set of replacements was all she brought.

Why do I want to win?

It was the sole urge that drove her forward. She hadn't a clue where it came from, but fight after fight after fight, the urge grew and twisted inside of her. She felt it press outward against her chest as if ready to burst. She needed to do this.

Arris sat on the bench and exhaled.

Allyson Locke

 

[Drystan Creed]

INTERMISSION

Well, he should've known that would backfire.

Drystan rubbed the back of his head, a flicker of frustration in his otherwise calm expression. The pieces were falling into place now. In his newfound obsession with victory, he had abandoned what had carried him through the tournament to begin with. He'd sacrificed winning—the mindset, the clarity—for the illusion of triumph.

A mistake. One he'd own.

He exhaled, brushing the thought aside. Time to drop off his gear and pay his respects. He never fought out of personal spite—especially not in a sanctioned arena. Win or lose, blades crossed bore no grudge once the final strike was dealt. That was how he viewed it. That was what it meant to be a fighter.

...

---

"Here you go. Everything I brought for the tournament," Drystan said as he dropped a duffel bag with a heavy thud at Mercy's feet. "Might need to repair the arm. Saber inside's got a slightly melted chassis. But if you're not planning to yank it out, shouldn't be a problem."

The bag was large. Heavy. And his cybernetic left arm? Nowhere in sight. But none of that was as jarring as what he wore.

When he said everything he brought, he meant it quite literally.

The formidable Shadow stood there wearing nothing but a pair of white boxers—adorned with a pattern of red hearts. No clothes just a complete lack of shame.

Passersby gawked or turned away. Others whispered in disbelief.

Drystan? Unbothered. Completely, utterly unbothered.

Mercy