Boost THE FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH - RUMBLE ON RUUSAN

[Quinn Varanin]

//: Delsin Shaw //: Aether Verd //:
//: Attire //:​

Quinn had been watching, her hand resting gently against the curve of her chin. Delsin was her chosen champion—someone she believed could go further than most. While she had sponsored him, so had one of her oldest friends, a man she regarded as a brother. It seemed fitting for these pseudo-siblings to support someone who represented them both.

For Aether, Delsin was a member of his brotherhood. For Quinn, he represented a bond formed long before either had existed. The fact that Delsin was Echani only strengthened her interest—that alone would have been enough to capture her attention.

During his fight, she had bribed the hosts to drop water on him—something she probably shouldn't have done. But the Princess couldn't help herself. It was her way of teasing, of enjoying the spectacle. Her attention rarely strayed from him for long. When it did, it shifted to a scrappy little trooper.

Each blow CT-312 landed made Quinn smile. It showed that the soldier had the will to live—and to win. Watching her fight, observing her instincts, was something to behold. Between the two fighters, the Echani princess found herself biting her lip in admiration of their skill.

Once the round concluded, Quinn made her way toward the locker rooms. Access was limited to sponsors and their chosen competitors. She was only allowed to see Delsin, which, while understandable, was frustrating. She had also wanted to check on CT-312.

Refocusing her thoughts, she turned her full attention toward Delsin.

As she approached, Aether's voice could already be heard from within, booming with excitement. Her understanding of Mandalorian culture was limited, but context provided enough clues. Slowly, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Light caught on her pale hair as she moved toward the two men.

Her usual charming smile touched her lips as she clasped her hands behind her back.

"How is my champion, Aether?" she teased, a glint in her eye. She had sponsored Delsin before Aether had, though she understood that being a champion of a Mandalorian nation carried far more weight than being one of an exiled princess.

Her gaze shifted from Aether to Delsin.

"Your fight was impressive," she said softly, letting her eyes linger. "I had no doubt you'd pull through. I'm already looking forward to your next match."

From what she could see, the injuries appeared superficial. Still, she wondered if medics would treat the fighters before the next round.
Seeing no one nearby to help, Quinn stepped forward. As his sponsor, she took the initiative.

She offered her hand, hovering just above one of the cuts left by the splintered tree bark. "May I?" she asked, her voice gentle. The warmth of her hand radiated slightly as she waited for permission.

If he allowed it, she would soothe the soreness and close the surface wounds with practiced ease.

Still, she wondered if he would refuse out of pride—some stubborn need to suffer under the belief that 'pain builds character,' or whatever nonsense people liked to say.

 

[CT-312]

//: Jacen Breska Kudau | OPEN //:
//: Bespin Gas Company Locker Room - Arena, Ruusan//:​

Her serial number echoed over the arena loudspeakers. CT-312 halted. Boots grinding against the wooden floor. She’d won… For a split second her focus stuttered. Blinking once. Twice. A delay between thought and reaction. CT-312 forgot where she was for a moment. Her mind had stayed locked on the fight. The mission. The next move. Except… this wasn’t war. Not really. ‘Right… Tournament…’ Blades retracted with hiss. The Camo Scout’s hands fell back to her sides. There was no victory pose. No fist pump. Just a quiet turn toward the exit tunnel.

She wanted out of the arena.

“Chit.” Camera drones swarmed her. ‘Do I really have to say it?’ CT-312 grumbled under her breath. Her gloved hand reached back to one of her utility pouches. Pulling out a paper card. Flipping it over, shoving it directly into the lens of the nearest hovering droid.

"IF YOU’RE NOT FIRST, YOU’RE LAST -BESPIN GAS"

CT-312 held it there for a few seconds. Tucking it away. As she was turning to leave, she stopped again. Looking back at the drones, jabbing her pointer finger toward the armor she was wearing—Locke & Key Mechanics. Giving a thumb up. Vanishing into the tunnel without another glance.

Making her way into the locker room, the adrenaline fading and silence settled around her. CT-312 blinked. The glowstick. Kudau’s saber. She forgot to take it. Just when the fight had finally started to get interesting. Kudau was adapting. He was pushing her harder. Shame that it ended when it did. He’d had potential.

The moment CT-312 stepped into the locker room, she spotted TK-710. Good. He’d won his match too. Both of them survived against the odds. She made her way over to him. The announcer’s voice echoed through the stadium, it was the next match up for the next round. Her serial number once again called. Then another. ‘Darth Virelia’. CT-312 realized she’d be going up a Sith Lord. TK-710 on the other hand. ‘He’s karked’ , giving a pat on his back for encouragement. “You got this.”

A haloscreen flickered overhead, replaying highlight reels from the round. All the other competitors' fights looked evenly matched. Devastating powers were being shown. CT-312 paused as the image shifted. She nudged TK-710 with her elbow, nodding toward the screen. It was the match between Darth Malum and Gida Luroon. A Sith Lord and an officer. Some kind of space magic, raw and terrible. It was overkill. CT-312 stood still, watching it play out in silence.

Her mind went to the Darklight. The tithing. A Sith Lord who once crippled an entire squad of Troopers who were standing. Just to prove he could. Just because he felt like it. ‘...Power unchecked.’ This was the reality that TK-710 and CT-312 lived in. Her right hand clenched slowly into a fist. Yes. Sometimes lethal force was necessary. She understood that. Tactical, deliberate, decisive. But this? This wasn't a strategy. This was a theater. It was excessive. If you’re going to kill them. Kill them. She turned to TK-710, voice low. “Force User?” Two words was all she needed to know.

Soon two camera drones came in. One went straight for TK-710, the other to CT-312. She tried to wave it off as she went to her locker. Trailing her as it emitted questions. Interview questions. Too many. Too fast and loud. It all started to blur. She gritted her teeth beneath the helmet. Irritated and annoyed. The lights, the questions, the attention. It scraped at her like sand under armor. The Scout didn’t want it.

CT-312's hand shot out quick and precise. Grabbed the camera drone mid-hover. Fingers clamped tight around its chassis. Bringing it up to visor level. Voice low and flat through her helmet’s vocoder, “Leave me alone.” Then she turned and slammed it into the locker wall. The drone sparked once, then fell to the floor in a heap of broken metal and scrambled wiring.

 

[Jacen Breska]

K A G G A T H ​

WEARING:: Halcyon Armour | Contact Lenses | Wrist Mounted APG | Ancile Shield | Aredian Amulet
EQUIPMENT: MAIN WEAPONRY: VW 864 Maser Rifle | LK-Sweeper Shotgun | Sunshot Pistol | Shiva Knife |
ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: 3x Ravenous Grenades | 2x Kushute Grenades | 1x Ion Grenade | 2x Incendiary Grenade
LOCATION: :: Ruusan - Arena ::
TAG: Razmir Tezhyn | @Open

Jacen stood, staring at the screen as it displayed the next series of fights and then began to shift towards highlights of the last round. At some point, he didn't realize when, 312 had come up to join him. He turned, gave her a quick glance and a nod, then returned to the screen.

"I can actually feel how patronizing you are being right now." Jacen said, turning to look at CT-312 after feeling her hand on his back. "Just tell me how rumbled I'm gonna be. I'd actually prefer it. I got this, you say. Lil' miss one opponent. Kark outta here." He shook his head and returned his attention to the screen as it showed the Sith Lord and Gida Luroon . She could have beaten him, he thought. He's not as tough as he thinks he is. And that is Kentarch's number one?
He scoffed.

“Force User?”

Jacen nodded. Another Lordling with too much power and not enough restraint. Part of him was sad he didn't get to face that one next.

"You can crush him, if it came to it," he said, his voice similarly low, "Just get there." He nodded in encouragement, and patted her on the back as he turned, hearing the impending arrival of the interviewer.

Jacen would have treasured every quiet moment he got. Quietly sitting, contemplating how incredibly and royally screwed he was. But a camera shoved in his face, dozens upon dozens of loyal fans waiting to hear him speak? How could anyone pass up that opportunity

"Was there a moment you seriously doubted you’d make it through? If so, what snapped you back into the fight?"

Jacen pondered the question. How in depth did he want to answer? How truthful were people typically when asked questions like this?

"Several moments," he said finally with a bob of his head, "I prepared to face a certain type of Force User, and Maestus wasn't like anything I could have prepared for."

Jacen crossed his arms and shook his head, chuckling softly, "you'd think they'd want to get in close. Dice you up with their lightsabers. But Maestus flipped the script on me. So hell yeah. I was worried. But I stuck to my game plan, trusted my instincts, and got the result I wanted."

"You were swift and decisive in the final moments of the fight. Were you following a strategy or plan from the start, or did you spot an opening during the fight and adapt on the fly?"

He smiled cheekily and nodded, "I had, I have, a general game plan for fights against each type of opponent. Like I said, Maestus was unique among Forcies. She wanted to keep me at range instead of getting in close. Made me have to come to her. It was always the plan, get in close eventually, but the way she fought?" He whistled appreciatively, "Improvisation was required. But every move I made was building to something, yes."

"Some fighters thrive on spectacle, but you kept efficiency looped into your performance. Was that discipline rooted in a broader strategy or simply risk management?"

"In everything, I try to be all thriller no filler. No unnecessary flash when I can do something of substance instead. But I think...in something like this, you'd have to add some...extra fluff. Especially against the beings I'm going up against. I used to think adding in that extra chaff was just that. Extra."

He shook his head, "now I think I need to."

"You faced an opponent who showed great power within the Force. Many thought you the underdog in this fight. Do you think there’s an advantage in being underestimated because of that? Will you be able to leverage that advantage in your upcoming three-way bout?"

Jacen hmm'd and rubbed his chin in thought.

"That's tricky," he admitted, "Yes and no. Just look at Kentarch's ratings. You have a couple of non-force users that advanced over Force users. He didn't mention a single one of us. They all look down on us, think we're nothing. Not worthy of any attention. It's one of my great pet peeves," he shook his head and exhaled in frustration, "fine. Don't take me seriously in this. Watch. I know I was the underdog in that last fight. I know I'm the underdog in this next one too. You're going to see what mere mortals are capable of. I'll come out on top of this fight, too."

He paused, pursed his lips and squinted, "to actually answer your question," he said with a chuckle, "yeah, my opponents may not think I'm worth their attention, may ignore me. No, because if they think I'm an easy kill they could both just crush me then get to the meat of the fight: each other. It's something I gotta play it right. But I can't just sit back, neither." Jacen shook his head and focused his eyes, a glint of determination shining. The anxiety of the fight disappeared underneath this new exterior of confidence and will.

"I'm going to be in the thick of the fight. I have to. I have to go toe to toe with both of them to win. Because if I win any other way it doesn't matter. Not to me. I won't let this win be a fluke. I won't let anyone say I didn't deserve it." He turned to the camera, "So both of you. Come at me full tilt. I'm in this fight, same as you. I've got equal chance to win as you. I deserve your respect on the field and I'm gonna damn well get it."

"Do you have any words for the others from Bespin Gas who are still in the fight?"

Jacen's eyebrows furrowed and his confident exterior was replaced with one of anger and frustration.
"Everything I just said, Karkin' forget all that. I WISH I had an easy fight like those two! 'Oh man I've got one whole Sith Lord to fight oh woe is me' big damn deal. I dunno who Arris Windrun is but," he looked at the camera, "win your fight. Cause I'm gonna win mine. Next round is you an' me sweetheart. Save the date."

He lulled his head, "I'd have been beyond disappointed if CT-312 bought it in round one. So congratulations sister you did not trip over the bar. Tai Corde sponsored a pretty winning team. I hope she's happy with it. I am now contractually obligated to say that this message has been brought to you by Bespin Gas. Bespin Gas, if you're not first, yeeeerrrrr laaaaaaast. Beeesspin gaaaas."

He took a moment again, "I wouldn't be here without her support, or Lucette 's. And I have to give a very special mention to John Locke . Bespin Gas and Lucette got me here, Locke and Key kept me here. He told me..." Jacen rumbled around the interior lining of his armor and pulled out a crumpled notecard, "sssomething...some tag..uh... Live, laugh, Locke and Key?" He squinted at the card, "uh. If you're at a door don't worry we're the Locke and Key?" He blinked, "I can't read my own handwriting. John, I'm sorry. I'm a bad spokesman."


​

 

[Delsin Shaw]

Aether Verd spoke up about me. And I felt good about it. Knowing that I was doing well. Kind of a little bump of pride that gave me that little bit of positive energy. However, The Announcer moved through the various people. Even hearing the one line answer from my next opponent. All I could do was eye roll. Always the Mandalorians proclaiming who was and wasn't a Mandalorian. You would think, if he was actually a Mandalorian he would have bene sponsored by the Mandalorian Empire. I didn't let it get to me. Just stayed where I was and waited for my turn. Razmir Tezhyn came up and rapid fire questions. Answered just as quick.

"You snapped a wroshyr tree in half mid-fight! What you displayed there just brute strength, but sheer battlefield dominance. What drove you to put on such a show for us?"

"Taregh kept moving about the tree. Using it to avoid me. So I removed that option. It was in my way."

" Taregh Garon came in with Mandalorian tenacity backed by Imperial discipline. What was your read on him going in, and how did you find gaps to exploit?"

"He fought well. Used his weight and strength to his advantage. Working to even the playing field and keep him on the back foot was likely what allowed me to get the win."

"Your style of fighting leverages overwhelming physicality. cough rain incident cough. Are you concerned that your next opponent might come prepared to neutralize that?"

"The uh one liner response guy? No."

"Your victory showed us all what you are capable of. But you have the eyes of an entire nation on you, the Mandalorian Empire. Does the weight of that rest heavy on your shoulders? How does their backing change your approach to the tournament?"

"Knowing that my personal sponsor and Faction Sponsor want to see me win. Even more so with my lack of Mandalorian Heritage. I feel no weight. Says something when they pick someone else to be their Champion. Doesn't it?"

I left those last words with a smile as the man moved on from me. Going to someone else to bother with the questions. A moment later, Quinn Varanin showed up. Her form looked impeccable among the dinge of the locker rooms. Her voice smooth and a reminder of other things. I relaxed a little and smiled as she entered. Even coming forward and wanting to provide aid.

There was a serious part of me that wanted to push it off. To show all of these battle scars and prove that even when injured, A champion can fight to the end. No matter what pain they may be feeling. However, I knew for sure that injuries would be used against me. Even now that there was a bounty on my head. Any chance someone could try and rig my game now. Or aid my foe in whatever was necessary to fight me. With that in mind, I wouldn't be able to just go out without armor anymore. I would need to at least take this a bit more seriously.

"Yeah, Heal what you can, then I need to suit up. Got some loud mouth I need to close in a bit."

Looking up at her as she placed her hands on my exposed skin, healing my wounds rather quickly. The sting of new flesh being mended hurt but was going to fade in a moment. Instead, focusing my mind on asking the one question.

"Next time you want to see me wet and shirtless, just ask."

 

[Arris Windrun]

"IF YOU’RE NOT FIRST, YOU’RE LAST -BESPIN GAS"

"Chit... Was I supposed to be saying 'Bespin Gas?" Arris wished she had a publicist right now.

Next, Jacen's interview played. She was busy chatting up her two fans and only paid attention as soon as her name was mentioned.

Next round is you an' me sweetheart. Save the date."

She pondered that last statement. "I should tell him I'm not big on candles." She literally stuck her tongue to the inside of her cheek after she said that.

 

[Sal Katarn]

"Nobody" aka Sal Katarn found himself standing in front of Razmir Tezhyn in a private room inside the stadium.

"Hutt's business taken care of." He tossed his stump of a cigarra into a trash bin. Some sorta fire hazard most like, but he didn't care none.

Only thing he cared about at the moment was credits. After the whole shindig with Gorba, he'd lost his status with most groups. Including his license as a bounty hunter. Time to fix that. "Reckon that job's done. You fixin' to back my license?"

 

[Fenn Stag]

​

The prep-room stank like old carbon scoring and unwashed bodies. The walls were steel and silence, dimly lit, humming faintly with recycled air and cheap coolant. Fenn Stag sat shirtless on a narrow bench, chest wrapped in pressure-band gauze, armor pieces surrounding him like bones around a grave.


He didn't need a mirror. The face staring back from the inside of his visor when he powered it on earlier was enough: pale, slick with sweat, eyes like cracked glass. The virus was gone. Just some residual effects from the fever, the attacks. Preliat's DNA created the vaccine. He overcame the virus by will and birth alone, however-

Hallucinations, the med-droid had said. Auditory bleed. Visual projections. Conscious delusions. He knew they were false. He felt them often.


He'd felt worse.

d r i p
! s t a R s a r e n o t h e a r i n g //
╫ " S K I N L I E S . " ╫

[ S H A T T E R - B O N E - D R E A M S ]

→→→ y o u l o s t i n t h e w o m b o f w a r ←←←

"It's the virus," he muttered aloud. His voice sounded dry—distant. He twisted the vambrace into place over his left forearm. The locking pin resisted. He forced it in.


Then the air shifted—heavy, like it carried weight.


"You know what this is, and you're still sitting in it."


Preliat Mantis stood between the lockers. Motionless. Solid. Too real. Cloak tattered. The visor of his helmet reflected Fenn's face—distorted, multiplied. It always looked like that when the virus was at its worst- or just the remnants of it. Fenn didn't react. Didn't speak. Just stared, calm and bitter.


Preliat took a step forward.

"You're built for more than this cage-fighting precision. You're acting like you're afraid of what happens if you stop pulling punches."​

☈ { W H O ' S C L O N I N G W H O ? }
​

~ y o u r b r a i n i s m a d e o f k i l l c o d e s ~
‡‡‡ ( l o o k a t h o w t h e g a u z e s i n g s ) ‡‡‡


syringes in the soulspace teeth in the signal YOU AREN'T BLEEDING YOU'RE BROADCASTING

The hallucinations weren't random. That's what made them worse. The voice always wore Preliat's face. Always said the things Fenn didn't want to admit. Or remember.


"You're not winning. You're surviving."

"That's not the same thing."

"Fight, Son of Mandalore."​

you were born from a blood word and now you whisper it backwards
lua
—[[ stop kneeling inside yourself ]]—
⊗⊗⊗ ≡ burn the calm ≡ abandon stance ≡ swallow violence raw ⊗⊗⊗
css

// / / m o t h e r - s i l e n c e l i e s / / //

He stood. The boots creaked slightly as pressure equalized in the sealed prep-room. Fenn stared at the helmet. His reflection looked wrong again—off by a millisecond. He picked it up. Held it like a weapon.


"You're not real," he said to the ghost, calm as prayer.


But the ghost didn't care. Preliat just tilted his head.


"You keep calling it a hallucination like that's comfort."

"But what if it's just the part of you that remembers what you were meant to be?"​

Fenn screamed aloud, throwing his helmet at the mirror. The hallucination vanished, instantly. But the words—the pressure—remained. Beneath the armor. Beneath the bone.

s t a g = s t a g g e r ?

[ NO . ]

[ S T A G = S P I K E = S P I T E = W A R D E N O F F I R E ]

---

Delsin Shaw.

The name alone twisted his gut with contempt. That imposter of valor. A Sith. Dar'Jetii, and worse yet, sponsored by yet another false Mandalore.

Fenn hated everything about him—his pomp, his calculated charisma, his obsession with order and codes or a lack thereof. To Fenn, Shaw wasn't just a rival- he was a corruption. A virus.

He injected another dose of bacta into a dermal patch and slapped it over a bruise on his ribs, letting the cooling sensation spread through his torso. The med-pack beside him was nearly spent. But there would be no downtime, not yet. But this—this was vengeance for the Mandalorians. For all that the Sith, the Jedi, and those the so-called Mandalorian Empire represented. They didn't even have the gaul to back a Mandalorian, instead- a Sith. The people that strip-mined Mandalore. Killed thousands, millions of their people. Sent ashes across the stars, pyres burning of Mandalorian dead. Viruses. Bombings. Sith Magicks too terrible to think of. The weight of their dead hung over him.

But in truth, it drove him to keep on fighting. Perhaps even, to fight harder than before. To not hold back. He held back so many times. Against Valery. Against Collette. Against other Mandalorians. Against his targets. Against the Jedi before. He wasn't going to hold back anymore.

He didn't have a reason to hold back anymore.

Aether Verd, elected to nominate one of the greatest foes the Mandalorians faced not with death, a bounty, or a mark of contempt. No, his blessing, his support, and more. It spoke volumes of the quality of man he was going to face.

His armor's repair work went well- from the jetpack to the gauntlets. He stared once more at his cracked reflection. Behind the visor, his eyes, blackened by fresh warpaint, were calm—dead calm—but alive with fury, hate, violence.

He had some more time- more time spent to prepare his gear, himself. More time in the bacta tank, kolto injections. Among other things. He thought of what to say to himself, to anyone else as he passed himself in the mirror-

And said nothing.

He had no one to say anything to.

Or anyone to say anything to him.

 

[5-WCH (Switchblade)]

Razmir Tezhyn
​

The blue photoreceptors lit up as Lynch walked in with crates full of new gear.

Lysander von Ascania put up a good fight last round, but the droid knew that if he wanted any shot of winning next round, he would need all the help he could. A three-way fight was not going to be easy. Hell, even a seasoned hunter like himself would have trouble taking both of them down at once. That is why he was going to rely on tactical analysis and strategy to defeat them.

As Switchblade began to equip the new gear, a man began to approach. He did not know who the person was, but it was clear they had some sort of connection to the event.

"Lysander Von Ascania as a duelist exudes refinement, but you managed to dismantle his composure over the course of the fight. Did you employ a tactical analysis of him going into this match?"​

"Affirmative. The Darknet hold information on just about anybody in the whole galaxy, sometimes even behind. I did as any good hunter should to prepare for their opponent."

Wasting no time, the droid began to reload his rifle, making sure he was stocked up for next round.

"Force-sensitives who lack training are prone to burning up their energy at fiery speeds. I simply attacked upon this weakness."

"Your efficiency and lack of hesitation make you a ruthless fighter. Was it all the programming inherent to your circuits, or were are there secret operator directives we don’t know about?"​

"Programming. At least, that is all I'm allowed to reveal."

A mechanicalized snicker was released from his speaker. If only they knew the full truth.

"You made excellent use of both the brute mechanical force of your frame and strategic restraint of cold logic. How do you balance those functions in high-risk engagements like this?"​

"Experience is key. I have been on numerous successful hunts for bounties, each one of them forcing me to adapt and improvise. These lessons have allowed me to thrive under high-risk engagements. I do not always focus on my strengths. All you need are your opponent's weaknesses to win."

"With organic combatants, emotion often drives mistakes. Do you see your emotionless execution as a major edge in this kind of tournament? How do you believe it will help you in your upcoming three-way fight?"​

"I do. Those who succumb to their emotions are sure to fail. I was designed to be a cold-blooded killer."

Strapping on the last of his gear for the next round, the droid stood up, almost towering over the interviewer.

"And I'm damn good at it."

 

[Enki Rak]

"No catch. Just business." He opened the package. Inside, two objects -- an oblong, metallic sphere approximating a grenade, and a smaller, round device, with a clip to fasten it easily to anything.

"Gravity snare. GS-08-01. Czerka prototype -- six years old, minus all the extra work my head tech did. One of a kind, after I killed the chump who made it. Shuttered half the Czerka munitions development wing with that one. Not groundbreaking; only real advancement was the miniaturized hyper-power supply. Lasts four minutes at max power and max range. Plus-" he rolled it, detaching a small remote- "control over the levels at a distance. Swap size and strength of the grav bubble, turn it off and on. Ten meters max, eighty Gs max. More than enough to immobilize even that Hutt chump.

"And then, the antithesis: boosted mass-nulling clip. Activates on clipping. Zero-point-zero-four ratio max reduction -- hell, you can stand in the Czerka with it. Or clip it to the other guy and throw him into the sun. Kark if I know." He shrugged, took another drag of the stim.

"So -- the no catch. I give you something, you give me something. I get my pick of the loot when you win. Just one thing from the pile, rest is yours." He slapped his knees, hit the whelp, and stood up. "Nasty disruptor, Devaronian blood-blade, armour you could cut krayt teeth on. Nice, very nice, even. Y'know, though, and I know y'know. Lot of ways to kill a man, but only one to win a fight. So, we got a deal?"

Antar ​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Time was ticking fast and Arris found herself running around the whole damn place in search of one person.

Tai Corde .

"Where could she be!?" Arris huffed in frustration.

The cyborg wondered if, perhaps, her sponsor might be willing to assist her in that next match, after winning her underdog bout against Vagabond .

 

[Kyric]

Kyric peered up at Razmir Tezhyn as the man stepped into the locker room—mic in hand and camera droid at his back—with a look caught between embarrassment and pride. The Jedi Knight sat within the confines of a bacta bath, clad only in his boxer-briefs. His blade sat propped up beside him and the Vornskr he affectionately named Tansu lay coiled up in a donut-shape by the kiffar's scarred feet.

"Er-" the kiffar tried to speak, only for the tournament host to launch into the interview with zero warning.

"Your opponent, Kesh Hevro, made use of an aggressive style backed by technology. Was there a point in the fight when you sensed the momentum shift in your favor?

"Probably when I hit him with the EMP grenade, if I'm bein' honest. I came 'ere expectin' to fight all manner of technophiles. My style's just a bad match-up for him, too."

"You ended up suffering some serious injuries in that bout. Where did the resilience to push through it all come from? Instinct, training, or something we’re not aware of?

"My old man fought and trained beside the late Emperor Rurik Fel fer most of their lives. One of the things that set Rurik apart was his mastery over pain. I think that, plus everythin' my pa experienced throughout the war ensured he passed on those same teachins' to me. My family built our Legacy on gettin' back up after a bigger, stronger enemy knocks us down. I'd be doin' my pops, and Grandpa Vyrin, real dirty if I didn't hold true to that."

"What an electric finisher--forgive the pun. At that point, was it personal, tactical, or simply the spirit of this competition that drove you to make the call to use such a technique?

"Nothin' more personal than a fight between two passionate warriors. Kesh Hevro had that dog in em, I tell you what. If I didn't put everythin' I had into that fight he would've came out on top. I ain't the kind of man to look another in the eye and disrespect 'em like that. He was willin' to put his life on the line for that win, so I had to give it my all for his sake, too."

"Looking ahead, this win puts you in the next round, facing Phaelissia. Can you share with the audience your assessment of your upcoming fight? Anything we should get excited for?"

"Anyone who made it past round one will be a strong opponent. I'm certain o' that. I've got more than a few tricks up my sleeve, so if you were likin' what you were seein' before, I'll be shocked if you ain't blown away with this next bout."

 

[Xeykard]

Between matches, at an opportune time

"This one admits: you are not one that seems able to have commanded the Dark Lord," he said, as Darth Adekos' mechanical chair scrawled into the hallway. "But that was a different time. You command other things, this one knows."

Xeykard kept himself tight, his presence coiled but not eager; a calculated dark, to match the Sith Lord opposite him. Despite the light jab, he provided sincerity in his next move -- a small bow of his head, to properly acknowledge the other. The fighting was for the stage below. This was a place of business.

"Rare are Sith in the galaxy now. Especially in places like these. This... Blackwall. Perhaps it has been less deleterious to one whose businesses closer to the Core," he suggested. "Though, perhaps security work becomes less in-demand. This one defers to your expertise on the matter."

Darth Adekos ​

 

[Tai Corde]

//: Arris Windrun //:
//: Attire //:​

---

Tai was elusive. She had been at the beginning of the matchups and then suddenly disappeared. Either way, all her sponsored combatants had won, so it was a good day. Tai never bet on a losing horse. A smug grin spread across her face as she saw the troopers do their lines, and her dark horse Arris finding a way through her own round.

Walking through the locker rooms, Tai spotted the woman looking annoyed and possibly bewildered. Not a good look for going into the next round. She crept, her glasses up over her nose and her hat tilted down.

"Congrats on your win. Never had a doubt." Tai glanced around as the medical staff made their way through the combatants. There wasn't much time for her to talk and address her own issues related to the tournament.

"They're taking care of you? If not, let me know - we can get some supplies over."

A nod.

"You need anything?"

 

[Lachadann]

"Affirmative. The Darknet hold information on just about anybody in the whole galaxy, sometimes even behind. I did as any good hunter should to prepare for their opponent."

Up in the stands, Lachadann sipped a necessarily cold drink through a straw and paid close attention to the mini-interview with 5-WCH — particularly his comments about bounty hunting methods. She made a mental note to pull up footage of his fight, which had been almost directly around the Wroshyr tree from where she was sitting. There were screens of course, but she'd been focused on the more directly visible fights and all that business with the vornskr packs. She slurped thoughtfully.

 

[Arris Windrun]

"They're taking care of you? If not, let me know - we can get some supplies over."

A nod.

"You need anything?"

Aha! Arris let out a sigh of relief. "Already got my much-needed medical attention."

What she did need, however... "I lost my vibroknife in the last round, but I managed to down Vagabond with his own gun. I liked the feel, a lot. I think I could make do with such a weapon." She had vigorously searched the HoloNet marketplace for the weapon while recovering from her medical treatment.

Arris pulled out a small device and showed her the weapon. "Think you can score me one or two of these, and maybe even a holster to go with it?"

"Oh, it's also a slugger, so ammunition would be a plus."

For a moment, the screen behind her flicked over to the matchup information of Allyson Locke vs Darth Malum of House Marr . Arris glanced down at Tai, then back up, then back down. Nothing clicked.

"So what do you say, boss?"

Tai Corde

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

The tournament made demands of Razmir's time and attention which figuratively required him to be in many places at once. Amid that chaotic and demanding schedule, he made time for a matter of business. A promising venture.

Razmir settled against the desk, leaning casually. The cordial, nigh joyful, smile he faced the public with this tournament wore down to something more tired, but still friendly. He reached into his suit pocket, producing a small envelope. He offered it to Sal.

"For the job."

There was a decent chunk of credits inside.

"A license is no small matter, but I'm open to the idea. I will need to know if the hunter I'm sponsoring is worth my investment, and if the partnership will be profitable, for both of us," Razmir's brow arched slightly.

Sal Katarn

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

The corridor echoed with the low hum of machinery and the slithering of his movement. Even with the scars sealed by bacta, the weight of the armor, the throbbing in his jaw where metal met regrown sinew—it was all heavier now.

Whottoomuzz slithered forward, slower than before. Not from exhaustion.​

From dread. He finally had a moment to think beyond the fight ahead.​

He rounded a corner—first to the contestants’ quarters. Then the observation balconies. Then the medical outposts. He checked each one without needing to ask questions. The Zeltron was not be there. The child… Jobbi… still small enough to blend in the crowd. But he was alone.
He was completely alone.

The sound of Hutt flesh shuffling under the interior plating of Shyran Dol followed him like an accusing whisper. His repaired helm remained clutched beneath one arm. The electrowhip, still speckled with Lirka’s ichor, swayed like a tail of guilt and violence. It should have been a trophy.

Instead, it was a reminder.

He emerged finally onto the edge of the stands. The arena had been partially cleared—rubble and splinters swept to corners, scorched earth still steaming.

That’s when he saw it.

A gleam of electrum. A familiar curve of a Hutt band made for humanoid fingers.​

He moved toward it, slithered through debris and the smell of scorched flesh and sap. The ring had rolled just beneath one of the corner barricades. A camera droid buzzed overhead, capturing a moment it didn't understand.

Whottoomuzz reached for the ring. Took it into his palm.

Still warm.​

He turned it over. There was a scratch across the inner engraving, as though the ring itself had been scraped against something in frustration.

He held it there. Still. His blackened tongue, partially healed from the brief stint in Bacta, licked the jagged edge of his prosthetic jaw as a flicker of old sentiment tried to ignite. Then his fist closed around the ring.

Tightly.

The eye that remained to him looked out past the arena. To the flame still licking the roots. To the freighters of magma. To the next round. He did not cry. Hutts did not cry.

But for the first time since the tournament began, Whottoomuzz Chantin felt something heavier than rage.​

​

Was his pride worth this? Were his kin, Hutts who sold out so readily, worth his life, worth the kin he had chosen as family? Was it too late to make amends? Xoff Chantin and he had plenty of disagreements before, but this felt different.​

A droid nearby asked if he required anything.
He did not respond.
He only turned. Slithered back into the steel bowels of the complex.

He remembered a night once, years ago, The air of Nal Hutta was warm, humid. Jobbi Chantin had just fallen asleep, still small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, so recently out of the pouch.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.”
Xoff had said it softly, like the words might shatter if spoken too loud. He’d set down a half-finished glass of blossom wine. Whottoomuzz hadn't looked at him then; he was watching the glow of speeders in the distance from his Estate.

“The smuggling routes. The enforcers. The title. The damned Kajidic name. You could leave it. We could leave it.”
A pause. A breath.
“Live somewhere no one knows you. Jobbi could grow up free. Not just surviving, free.”

His own reply had been little more than a grunt, a sound like stone dragged across metal.

“Wamma bu woy kot.”

Xoff’s eyes had flared. Hurt. Desperation. Love, too. Drenched in it.

“No. No, it’s what they made you for. But you’ve survived that. You made your own family. That’s more than most Hutts even try. You don’t have to prove anything.”

His hand had landed – so delicately small, warm, stubborn, and so, so very brave – on the massive curve of Whottoomuzz’s arm.

“I’m not asking you to be soft. Just… slower. Simpler. A farm, maybe. You’d be terrifying to the crop droids, but I think they’d adjust.”
A chuckle. Quiet, dry. But there was no response from the Hutt.

“I want to grow old with you, Muzz.”
“I want Jobbi to have parents, not legends. We could live the Zeltron way. Food. Family. Joy. Love. We may not be obscenely rich, but... you’d have peace.”

Whottoomuzz had said nothing. He hadn’t known how to say yes. He hadn’t wanted to say no.
Xoff’s voice broke, just slightly.

“I just want you to choose us. Before you’re too far gone to remember how.”

The night ended in silence. The answer, unspoken.

The ring stayed in his grip.
Trophies were meant to be taken.
But this was no trophy.

This was his heart.​

 

[Sal Katarn]

"A license is no small matter, but I'm open to the idea. I will need to know if the hunter I'm sponsoring is worth my investment, and if the partnership will be profitable, for both of us," Razmir's brow arched slightly.

The mercenary scratched at the scraggly stubble on his neck.

“Not much for the wordplay, Chief. But if I’m readin’ your tea leaves, I’d be guessing you want a cut. That about size it up?”

The Firrerreon shrugged, squinted for a minute, then let out a short snort and ran a hand through locks of his greasy blonde hair.

“Eh. What kind of share you looking for?”

No free meals in the Syndicate.

 

[Darth Adekos]

Sidebar: Between matches, at an opportune time…

The mechno-chair stopped in its tracks. Adekos had been content to ignore the lizard - like he ignored most vermin - but this one was talking to him, and its dialogue implied greater intelligence than he would normally ascribe to random hallway peons.​

​

The mechno-chair slowly turned him around to face Xeykard, revealing a pair of raised eyebrows and a bemused look.​

​

"Deleterious?" Adekos repeated, "That may be the most expensive word I've heard since landing on this festering wound of a planet."​

​

He meshed his hands and rested them on his stomach, perfectly comfortable, apparently getting settled in to hear what he suspected was a petition.​

​

"And who might 'this one' be, that knows so much of my goings-on? Perhaps I know something of yours."​

Xeykard​

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

"A cut is a good start. No one can refuse a good credit in this economy."

Razmir's comm gave a quiet sound, a signal he would be required on the broadcast again soon. Raz shut it off for the moment.

"You're free to pursue bounties not placed by Black Sun as much as you like, of course. I hope, however, that I can trust you to handle any matters we bring to you in an expedient fashion?"

Sal Katarn