Boost THE FIRST GALACTIC KAGGATH - RUMBLE ON RUUSAN

[Sael]

​

It shouldn't have been this easy. It had never been this easy. Not even her first outburst — the Force seemed to flow so naturally to her here on Ruusan. Sael could feel the crowd folding around her like cloth pulled into a knot quickly, completely. Every breath she exhaled seemed to catch in someone else's throat. Her reach moved wider than it ever had before. Mercy had told her of Ruusan's power, and now she felt it.

All she had to do was weave them together. One thread at a time. Pride into reverence. Despair teased into hunger. Her pheromones softened the edges, coaxing the broken into a shape that longed to be filled with meaning, with direction, with Mercy .

And it was working! One man dropped to his knees. Another whispered Mercy's name like a plea. She felt it in their pulsebeats, in the widening of their pupils, the satiation of the beast inside. Then a sharp, foreign note in her atmosphere. Unaccounted for and cut sideways through her concentration. Her breath caught—shoulders tightening, chin twitched downward to brace against herself. Always just skimming the edge of control, all it took for Sael's chemical coercion to slip was someone speaking to her. Worse yet, complimenting her.

The spell snapped.

One of the followers, young, fanatical, afraid, blinked hard and staggered back as though he tripped over a low strung wire. He shook his head, and disappeared into the crowd. The emotion slipped fast from Sael's periphery, and her fingers stretched to grasp at the unspooling threads she'd knit together into the cast net.

Gone.

She stiffened. It wasn't just raw embarrassment. It was shameful loss. She had held that man's devotion too briefly. The nerve endings beneath her skin prickled, feeling like a wild animal caught mid-step. Her eyes sliced sidelong at him, feeling little more than discomfort's tingle.

"Nothing to hear. There's supposed to be nothing to see...either..." she mumbled, feeling defeat creep into her bones.

He held out the bottle in one hand, the joint in the other.

No master had ever offered her libations — and she could not disappoint her new Master with experimenting in the midst of curating a chemical-born fandom. Sael's answer came quiet, a beat late, barely above the noise: "Neither, thank you."

She blinked once, slow, and pulled her pheromones back inward like a curtain falling. Someone had seen her. And she wasn't sure yet if that was worse than being invisible.

"Who are you?"

____________________________________________________________
Isar
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Isar]

The tattooed Zeltron shrugged and helped himself to another sip from the bottle.

"Me? Oh I'm nobody really," he chuckled, scratched at his earring with a thumb, "Just a dreamer, like you. Call me Isar."

The lass seemed a bit shy. Odd, that. So much power on display and then to be a shrinking violet. Two and two made five. Isar's chin tilted up and he looked down his nose at the going's on. Had he heard someone whisper "mercy" a moment ago?

Well, well. What have we here?

"Maybe the rest of them play see no evil, hear no evil. People like us, love?" He tutted, "We see it all. All those little threads of emotions coming together in a master weave. Fear and anger and lust and joy. Tantalizing, isn't it. Just to pluck at the strings and see the sound they make."

A lilac stare held her own, unblinking.

"What were you trying to do anyway, miss....?" He reached out, his mind brushing across hers - a whisper on the wind. Telepathically, "Don't think I got your name."

Sael

 

[Sael]

​

"Okay, Isar." Unquestioningly, she'd do what she was told.

"Like us?" Her voice held a fragile lilt to it, like she wasn't sure if she was in on the joke or the subject of it. She couldn't say much more, she had to keep her concentration's majority on the net she'd created. Even now, she could feel it straining under its own weight. Not a single thread, but a web laced with too many variable and rethreaded logic: Joy braided into envy. Lust buried beneath adoration. Fear scaffolded with awe, turned inward until it curled around Mercy's name like a prayer.

It was delicate work. Every face out there was a reflection distorted just enough to shimmer the way she needed them to shimmer. One wrong pull, one fray, and the whole thing would collapse.

Then she felt it.

Unnaturally irisless eyes opened wide, surprised, afraid. She hadn't had someone touch her mind before. It felt slippery. Unnatural. Could she just...think...back, or would that further damage the foundations she'd laid for the net to gather followers for her Master?

Sael. As in, for sale. The only way she'd ever been referred to prior to Mercy — who affectionately referred to her a little goblin or worm instead.

"I—I'm.." earning my keep. Trying to prove myself. Pursuing power. Trying to understand what's inside me. "..working."

____________________________________________________________
Isar
____________________________________________________________
​

 

[Isar]

"Sael. Say-elle... Hmm. I like it. Reminds me of some kind of flower."

Azalea.

The man puffed on glitterstim, watching those irisless eyes, and wondered if she was blind or not. But she seemed to perceive him, and not through the Force. He had not seen eyes quite like those.

"I can see your work. Wish I knew what it was for, love."

In her mind, "Might lend a helping hand."

He leant it anyway. Reaching out with his mind, he drew on the aphotic flow of energies dwelling within the space between passion and pain. Wielding the power like a painter, he traced the threads drawn taut by Sael , heightening the emotions she drew out as if brushed over in bright reds and neon greens. Lust bled to yearning, twisted to raw obsession. Adoration grew to reverence, then fountained into worship.

All around them, the threads of Sael's weave hummed as if strummed upon, reverberating with the echoes of creation and chaos. And the result?

"MER-CY! MER-CY! MER-CY!"

The crowd roared for their favorite. Tore their clothes off for their favorite. Fell to the ground sobbing for simply getting a glimpse of their favorite.

Isar let out a soft little snort.

" Mercy . Of course, it would be her."

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Spoiler: The Deathmark Collectors Roster

1. Krexar: A Nikto sharpshooter with a penchant for poisons, his leathery skin bearing the scars of countless battles.

2. Gorruk: A towering Gamorrean enforcer, wielding a massive vibro-axe, his brute strength matched only by his loyalty to the Cartel.

3. Sskeer: A Trandoshan tracker, his cold, reptilian eyes always calculating, known for his expertise in hand-to-hand combat. Slain on Fondor by Nos Voros.

4. Vexla: A Rodian explosives expert, her green skin often camouflaged in urban environments, with a mischievous glint in her multifaceted eyes.

5. Durok: A Duros pilot and tech specialist, his smooth blue skin and red eyes concealing a mind adept at slicing and infiltration.

6. Nymara: A Nautolan seductress and intelligence gatherer, her head-tails often adorned with jeweled ornaments, using charm to extract secrets.

7. Kholak: A Kaleesh warrior-priest, his face concealed behind a traditional bone mask, blending spirituality with deadly precision.

8. Zarin: A Nagai swordsman, his pale skin and jet-black hair giving him a ghostly appearance, his vibroblade an extension of his will.

9. Threx: A burly Weequay brawler, his weathered skin and topknot marking him as a veteran of many skirmishes.

10. Lorra: A lithe Twi'lek acrobat and thief, her blue lekku often wrapped around her neck, skilled in stealth and infiltration.

11. Mordo: A hulking Houk bruiser, his thick hide making him a formidable opponent in close quarters.

12. Siv: A sly Devaronian con artist, his red skin and sharp horns often hidden beneath a hood, adept at deception and disguise.

They didn’t come as warriors.

They came as workers. Spectators. Journalists. Janitors. Spice vendors. Fire suppression techs.

Nobody remembered their names at the checkpoints. Nobody noticed the shipment logs overwritten in the droid manifest. Nobody questioned the lanky Twi’lek who slipped through the lighting rig scaffolds overhead, or the Nikto custodian inspecting the viewing glass with oddly military precision.

They were Deathmark Collectors.​

Twelve ghosts of a dead cartel — now stirred by zealotry, betrayal, and an oath signed in blood.

• Krexar set up a perch behind the camera scaffolds, calibrating a disruptor scope.
• Gorruk posed as a cargo hauler, hiding a vibro-axe under his fake ID and bulk-shifter exo.
• Vexla played the arena’s pyrotechnics assistant. She knew exactly where the structural faults were.
• Durok was already slicing backstage badge records.
• Nymara had two executives wrapped around her fingers and three more on the way.
• Kholak meditated alone in a utility access tunnel, murmuring prayers to forgotten gods and sharpening his blade.
• Zarin waited silently in a VIP shadow booth, vibroblade sheathed in cloth.
• Threx passed through crowd barriers with a forged badge and a crate of concussion mines.
• Lorra clung to the steel rafters, lekku coiled tight, her footfalls softer than wind.
• Mordo didn’t need a disguise — just a lanyard and a scowl.
• Siv already had a vendor permit, a shell company, and six burner accounts pumping credits through arena kiosks.

They moved like parts of a machine.

Not one spoke Whottoomuzz’s name aloud. Not one wore a sigil. But each carried a final instruction etched into memory, signed with his voice, just hours before the match:

“If I fall… there will be no Round Three. Only a collection.”​

And they would collect.

Not with haste.
Not with warning.
Just names, debts, and a desire for blood.

They were already inside.​

You will know if and when they target you
@closed for now​

 

[Mr. Usher]

PINSTRIPE PARASITE​

The crowd was a living wound.

Laughter, screams, spiceclouds thick enough to stain memory—spilling through the gladiatorial gullets of the Black Sun’s opulence, built atop Jedi graves and desecrated myth. The perfect place to rot something holy.

A man in a black pinstripe suit and wide-brimmed hat sat five rows behind the blood-slicked barricades, the brim tilted just enough to keep his glass-lens eyes from catching the light. Too still to be comfortable. Too smooth to be real. His hands were folded neatly over a cane he did not need, and where his breath should have fogged the chill-stabilized air, there was nothing. Only a subtle flicker where his form didn’t quite belong.

One proxy among many.
One drone of the Choir.
But this one was watching.

"Curious, isn't it..." the husk murmured to no one. "How something presumed carrion can still inspire panic in scavengers."

He meant Whottoomuzz. An ally of a past agreement.

That name had not rattled its way across the hive in cycles. Mr. Usher had assumed the Hutt dead—swallowed by bureaucratic voids and cartel purges. But here he was. Still breathing. Still loud. Still dangerous.

And very much alone.

Beneath the arena’s floor, deeper than any crowd could cheer over, a gentle slither began. Not of rats. Not of cables. But of repurposed biomass—slipping through ventilation seams and security tunnels, slow as growth in a dark cellar. The kind of thing no one noticed until it was too late. The kind of thing that could listen. And, in time, do more than listen.

"He was betrayed, then." A pause. "Strange that betrayal still offends me."

A flicker dripped across neural relays as memory reasserted itself.

The first time Mr. Usher had seen Mauve, she’d been poised in a stolen lounge above a club burning itself clean. He'd been there to assist the theft of a sith Wayfinder device. He still remembered the scent of the pheromones exchanged. The taste of Falleen Flesh.

As for Razmir, that was older. Simpler. Back when he was just an apparent slicer-for-hire on Makeb, eking out credits working a job for Tera while the team cracked open Stronghold One for its Isotope-5. Black Sun had come later. Or perhaps it had always been there, waiting to offer more than either of them could refuse.

Neither were visible now. Hiding, perhaps. Or waiting for new odds.

"All debts revisit their lendee, in time."

Elsewhere, dozens more of Mr. Usher's quiet-faced emissaries were threading through the crowd like docents of entropy. Some smiled. Some did not. All were listening.

The stage is charmingly elaborate. But I did not come to wager.

The brim tilted down once more. Silent. Patient. Hungry.

Location: In the bleachers. In the walls.
Objective: infiltrate the swarm
Tags: None. Not yet.
​

 

[Tilon Quill]

and a dinner date arrangement with a svelte Weequay

With round two kicking off in earnest, and two people he considered friends still in the fight after injury, Tilon steadied his nerves by sharing a drink with the Weequay he'd met in the halls, a low-level thief working the crowd for a Black Sun affiliate. Good company as long as you watched your wallet, and that shared drink and Tilon's linguistic skills went far. So did the kinetic early moments of round two.

He had the unsettling feeling that, beyond just the admittedly batshavvit bounty-related events being talked about all over, things were brewing. Things. So while he and the Weequay enjoyed that drink - really just concession booze in a flask - in one of the stands' stairwells and watched round two, Tilon tried to keep his ear to the ground. You had to watch out for things.

 

[Darth Malum of House Marr]

The first round was done, and he had nought but a scratch upon his armour. That was the best he could have hoped for going against one of Darth Morta's creatures, and with the organiser's interference. The second round already promised to be far more risky when it came to matters of bodily harm, after all, he had already caught the highlights of his new opponent's first duel, that bow would certainly prove annoying.

Yet he had promised, he had promised them all, his Kara... his Aureus, and his Caelia, that he would return to them.

So he would.

There were apparently interviews for the first round's victors, that would prove interesting. Lacking in injury, his thirty minutes break was spent mostly on research, this anamolous Locke, that whose existence so perplexed him. Yet, beyond such research, beyond the confusion that he had essentially found nothing, on the Emperor's creature that he had so long ago inserted to shadow him.

He had instead touched himself up, wiping the sweat from his face, having a snack and drinking some water, making sure his appearance was set for what would be the first time most would see him unmasked.

The thoughts drifted away, as the first of the interviewer's questions came for him. Malum hummed in faux consideration, as he brought a hand to his masked face, a hiss eliciting out from the contraption as it buckled and released, revealing to the cameras, the aristocratic face of Malum of House Marr, a canvas that beheld all the traits that had made swoon and fear in equal measure, a thin lipped smile, an aquiline nose, and red eyes, that shined like rubies in the darkness, a full flock of hair, trailing down to his neck, raven in make, seemed to shimmer as light glanced off it.

"What surprised me? Very little I am afraid, I know her master Darth Morta, the Governor of Krayiss II personally, I always knew one of her subordinates would make for a capable opponent," Malum leaned back on his chair, he had removed his armour in exchange for his far more formal clothing, the blue contrasted quite well to the red and black that seemed to otherwise define him, "Of the fight itself..." He brought a hand to his chin, "...Well I suppose the voidstones and Devaranonian blood poison were unexpected, it would seem there is someone out there with credits to burn and a vendetta against me." Malum closed his eyes and chuckled good naturedly.

He flicked them open with the next question, "...An interesting question, many matters go hand in hand when it comes to the wielding of what seems to others such esoteric powers, I have had a lifetime to learn, I have had many teachers, suffice it to say each has imparted their own quality that has made me what I am, I wield all the tools at my disposal." His mind flicked to his tutors, to his Mistress, to Mia and Srina both, those who had been in their own way mother to him, even as an admission of such even in the confines of his mind felt... awkward still.

Still there was no lie, they had all fanned the flames that would bring the whole rotting apparatus tumbling down.

He smirked at the next question, "Oh not at all, though I do hope all those who made it to the second round watched the recordings with great interest." A coy glimmer zounded through his eyes, as they went onto the next question, a small chuckle leaving him, "Oh Razmir, if I may call you that, rivalry would imply some kind of peerness, alas, such does not exist. I have no idea who this Allyson Locke is, and by the end of it, I imagine the rest of the galaxy will have forgotten she exists," Would she respond? Somehow Malum felt he already knew the answer, "As for how I plan to handle her?" The ghost of a smile was back upon his features, "Well, that would be telling, would it not? Rest assured, you will see soon."

They all would.

Razmir Tezhyn
Mentioned: Ansisa Darth Ophidia Mia Monroe Srina Talon Allyson Locke Gida Luroon Darth Morta

Malum's heart found itself soften, as the words slipped through his cousin's lips. What a pity that he had not found him sooner, what a pity that his apprenticeship had already begun under the tuteleage of another. He had many disappointments in his life, he felt... in this moment, as the cries of the crowd subsided, leaving only them in this moment, that he had found one...

...Found one who would never disappoint him.

"...The amount of faith you trust in me is touching, I will guide you, teach you, as best as I can," He spoke in a voice soft, and full of heart, "But there exists for you a path still to be found, one walked through many winding roads, we will walk that path together, if it is what you desire." The amulet burned hotly against his chest, a more flagrant sign that this figure before him was one of his own, could not be given. A sign, that the last acts had not yet been conducted.

The flames were lit in the emeralds of the young man before him, as hot as the flames that had long ago been lit in the rubies of the older man stood opposite, they were the fire and the flames, the hearthfire that protected, the wildfire that would burn it all to cinders.

His heart stilled at the end of his declaration, a wetness setting in at his irises.

He withdrew a single hand away from the opposite's shoulder, latching onto the mask that seperated their gazes, the mechanism hissed and whirled as it came loose, falling away to the table, the aristocratic face of Malum of House Marr revealed to him, and him only, in this moment of shared vulnerability. Red eyes softened, lips held in thin line, aquiline nose tremulous, as he brought his forehead against that of his kin.

The warmth of minds connecting, filled him, the familial glow of ones bound by blood, loyalty, and fealty.

"There exists one last rite of passage," Malum whispered, his breath so close to flutter across the younger's face, his other hand lopping around to take the burning amulet in his hand, and offer it forward, "Touch the amulet, that which houses the embers of our shared ancestor, and be brought into the hallowed House of Marr, bearing witness to the demise of the Lord of Duty."

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Je'ames the Duro watched over a cannon operator aboard a warship in Ruusan's orbit. He didn't need to have his blaster out, the credit investment had been enough to motivate the young officer.

"That's it, bub, nice'n'slow," Je'ames instructed. He knew nothing about ballistics or starship operations, but he liked to feel in charge. "Get 'er lined up properly, we don't want none of that atmospheric interference to cause problems, y'dig?"

The cannon operator took some time to calibrate the shot's trajectory to be as precise as possible. Je'ames had been given a specific target and capital warship-grade weapons were no joke.

"Let 'er rip."

From the arena, a bright streak of light would cut through the clouds, cutting the skies. An ion cannon shot, red and angry with ionic energy, broke the heavens to explode right on Whottoomuzz Chantin head.

Antar

From the skybox, Mauve watched a bolt of energy cook in through atmosphere. She typed on her datapad - another encrypted transmission.

“I thought I said wait. If that wasn’t you - take the shot now.”

Sars Sarad

THE FLESH CURTAIN​

The shot was coming.

Atmosphere parted. Clouds curled. The ion bolt descended, a massive bolt, precise as an executioner's axe. The kind of payload no electronics could hold. It was not merely sabotage, it was an execution that was planned.

A man in a pinstripe suit leaned forward from his seat. One gloved hand tapped the end of his cane—once.

"Unacceptable."

And from the veins of the arena, something he intervened.

The vents which once poured lava now screeched as something rapidly burst forth. A fountain of meat, shooting just beneath Whottoomuzz’s platform, which twisted. The metal screamed. It peeled back like skin beneath a scalpel, and from its depths burst a mass of living matter that had no name in any sane language.

Meat and skin and sinew. Cartilage veined with reinforcing bone bracing, Tendons lined with reptilian scales, A wall of living meat rose from below like a cancerous ribcage, its crown flaring upward into a gnarled bubble encasing both Antar and Whottoomuzz Chantin .

The ion cannon struck, but it did not strike Whottoomuzz.

It struck the Flesh Curtain and detonated in sizzling hissing, seared gristle. Some of the crowd screamed in confusion, fear, or awe. The bolt had vanished into something that was not supposed to exist. The holocamera feeds could only see a wall of flesh, for the time being.
Scales of steaming husk flaked like meat ash.

Whottoomuzz remained.

The pinstripe figure remained seated.

"There is no guarantee in chaos."
"But there can still be terms."

And now the arena was changing.
Not just the floor. Not just the air.
The audience.

Something moved behind the eyes of the spectators. A few too many wore wide-brimmed hats now. A few too many blinked out of rhythm. Vents exhaled slowly. The walls seemed to breathe. And somewhere, deep in the foundations of the Black Sun’s stolen theater, the biomass fed.

Mr. Usher had not saved a life. He upheld his end of a pact. He would collect due payment from the Hutt later.

"Play on."

Location: Arena bleachers
Objective: Intervene with precision
Tags: Whottoomuzz Chantin | Razmir Tezhyn | Mauve
​

They moved before the crowd could scream.

The Deathmark Collectors had always been inside.

The moment the Flesh Curtain rose to intercept the orbital cannon, the plan shifted from passive threat to open extraction. Twelve assassins buried across the coliseum moved with perfect violence—each synchronized to Whottoomuzz’s final contingency: “If the game turns rigged, burn the board.”

• Gorruk yanked his vibro-axe from the false crate and buried it in the spine of a security officer manning the exit tunnel’s shield node.

• Durok finished slicing the maintenance junction and released every anti-fire suppressant pipe in the arena, flooding key corridors with smoke and hissing steam.

• Vexla detonated a series of microcharges in the north utility conduit. Lights flickered. Emergency gates jammed halfway. Panic surged.

• Threx hauled open a blastdoor with a concussion mine, flattening two guards and opening the main hall toward the hangar bay.

• Lorra leapt down from the rafters, slicing a Black Sun sniper’s throat before he could line up on the arena’s central ring.

• Nymara smiled faintly as she whispered the wrong security code into the ear of the arena’s VIP control officer—just before jamming a vibrodagger beneath his ribs.

• Zarin blocked the west corridor with a spinning vibroblade flourish, dispatching a six-man rapid response team in seconds. His blade didn’t touch the floor once.

• Mordo stood in front of the docking bay's automated turrets, taking a dozen blaster bolts with a portable shield and then throwing it—and himself—into the defense systems. Sparks showered.

• Kholak led the charge, vibroblade raised, intoning a warrior prayer. He cut through Black Sun officers like they were meat for the gods.

At the rear of it all, a hangar bay door was forced open. A mighty barge powered on—sleek for its size, adorned in ancient cartel sigils and modern weapons alike. The Kajidic’s Pride.

Durok barked through the comms:

“Engines warm. Shields precharging. Three minutes to jump—if he makes it here alive.”

They would see to it.

Every exit would burn before Whottoomuzz fell into enemy hands.

They were no longer ghosts.
They were wrath made visible.​

Backdoor created for Whottoomuzz’s withdrawal | Blood has already been paid.​

 

[Mr. Usher]

The Flesh Curtain sizzled still—smoking meat and shielded bone peeling like burned fruit from the crater where a warship-grade ion cannon had struck.

Whottoomuzz did not move at first.

The moment stretched like a breath before an execution… but no execution came.

The crowd stared, hushed. The cameras blinked static. Antar still stood within the bubble of charred sinew—unstruck, but not unshaken.

The Hutt raised one clawed finger. Toward Antar.

Not in accusation.

In judgment.

"Dis arena tonka. Uba tonka."
"I would fight you under unbiased circumstance."

He turned his back.

Then he rose.

With a blast of repulsor coils and a howl of jet-assisted weight, the six-ton titan launched into the smoke-veiled air, blasting open a hole in the flash curtain with his shoulder mounted repeating blaster.

He offered a brief nod to Mr. Usher – an old pact remembered.

His armor flared gold against the blood-orange haze of fire and sabotage-born chaos. Molten lava danced far below. Bystanders scattered. Cameras craned wildly to track his ascent.

He passed above the stands.

He did not wave.

Only a single pulse of encrypted signal left his suit. A signal to the Kajidic’s Pride—already screaming to life in the spaceport, its hull hot from stolen fire.

As Whottoomuzz cleared the final stretch of arena walls, he turned midair for one last look at the battlefield below. Where a duel had almost occurred. Where a syndicate had fired a cannon at a contestant rather than let him win.

"Mi boa jujuma. Jeejee nopa."

He vanished over the horizon, taking offering to the prize pool, Shyran Dol, with him.

Moments later, the Kajidic’s Pride launched skyward, the stadium's anti-air systems already sabotaged by the deathmark collectors.

Its engines roared loud enough to rattle the colosseum teeth. Its transponder flickered once—and then it was gone.

He would not find glory here. But he would find something far more enduring.

Memory.

And the name Razmir Tezhyn was etched into his.

Spoiler: Combat Summary — Final Post / Extraction

• Defensive Actions: Flesh Curtain intercepted ion cannon. No damage sustained. No counterattack necessary.
• Offensive Actions: None. Duel called off due to external interference.
• Mobility / Positioning: Used repulsors and jetpack to exit arena. Flew over audience. Navigated to spaceport.
• Armor / Gear Use: Full repulsor and jetpack function from Shyran Dol. Voidstone field retracted. Systems green.
• Damage Taken: None.
• Status: Extracted. Vindicated. Unbowed.

Antar | Razmir Tezhyn | Mauve

EXIT | Concede to Antar​

HOUSE LIGHTS​

The jet-flare of Whottoomuzz’s ascent still lingered in the air like aftershave on a fresh corpse. Smoke curled. Sirens flared. Somewhere in the upper levels, a camera finally snapped back into focus—only to catch empty air where a champion had stood.

There was no applause.

Only the sound of one man, five rows back, rising from his seat.

A man in a black pinstripe suit and wide-brimmed hat.

And all around him… dozens more.

The audience shifted.

Too synchronized.

Too still.

Each proxy of the Choir stood in tandem. No words exchanged. No signal given. Yet all of them moved as one. Each reached for the knot of their tie—adjusted it. Straightened their lapels. Tilted their hats by a single degree.

"Extraction confirmed."
"The pact holds."

One by one, they turned in orderly lines and they walked. Silently. Like theatergoers filing out after a tragedy.

In the walls, something blinked. A last feed of biomass terminated.
The flesh curtain collapsed, abandoned in place. The Choir had done enough.

Mr. Usher would remember who profited.
And he would remember who fired first.

"We end act one here."

Location: Bleachers → Exit Corridor
Objective: Observe. Conclude. Reposition.
Tags: Whottoomuzz Chantin | Razmir Tezhyn | Mauve | Antar | Exit
​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

Kholak led the charge, vibroblade raised, intoning a warrior prayer. He cut through Black Sun officers like they were meat for the gods.

Kholak: A Kaleesh warrior-priest, his face concealed behind a traditional bone mask, blending spirituality with deadly precision.

That vibroblade met a brisk fething backhand and failed to bite in. As the chaos separated them, Jerec eyed the Khaleesh with deep dislike.

He equally disliked using the Force in public. He'd kept a great deal about that side of his life private. But just now, with round two interrupted by...feth, an orbital strike, an undead? horde, a Flesh Curtain™, a sudden preponderance of assassins, and the entrance and exit of the good ship Fait Accompli, Jerec was having a hard time feeling like his tickets were good value for money. And this was the Valley of the Jedi, a consummate Force nexus, and he was already so pissed off about that tree.

There was a whole lot of lava down there. Without compunction, Artusian crystal sparking green under his skin, he pointed at the nearest assailant through the chaos — be that Kholak or any other unwise whoever — and they found themselves flung down into the lava by an invisible grip on their neck. Then he pointed at the next nearest and did the same, and kept on going.

 

[Mr. Usher]

That vibroblade met a brisk fething backhand and failed to bite in. As the chaos separated them, Jerec eyed the Khaleesh with deep dislike.

He equally disliked using the Force in public. He'd kept a great deal about that side of his life private. But just now, with round two interrupted by...feth, an orbital strike, an undead? horde, a Flesh Curtain™, a sudden preponderance of assassins, and the entrance and exit of the good ship Fait Accompli, Jerec was having a hard time feeling like his tickets were good value for money. And this was the Valley of the Jedi, a consummate Force nexus, and he was already so pissed off about that tree.

There was a whole lot of lava down there. Without compunction, Artusian crystal sparking green under his skin, he pointed at the nearest assailant through the chaos — be that Kholak or any other unwise whoever — and they found themselves flung down into the lava by an invisible grip on their neck. Then he pointed at the next nearest and did the same, and kept on going.

Spoiler: Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Husk (1 HP)

• Human-sized (~1.7m)
• emaciated build
• Role: Reconnaissance, infiltration, mimicry
• Traits: Fragile, quick, capable of speech and tool use
• Notes: Can impersonate civilians, workers, or low-level officials; often deployed in groups or as sleeper agents

Warrior

• Size: ~2.3m tall, muscular and predatory
• Role: Frontline assault
• Traits: Bladed limbs, enhanced strength, fast reflexes
• Notes: Highly aggressive; used for direct engagements and biomass harvesting in active zones

Prowler

• 1.5m at shoulder
• quadrupedal with elongated limbs
• Role: Stealth raids, sabotage, dismemberment
• Traits: Sinewy, silent, capable of wall-crawling and burrowing
• Notes: May cloak or camouflage in environments; often sent ahead to break defenses or ambush targets

Hulk

• ~5m tall,
• massive and heavily armored
• Role: Biomass hauling, brute force, siege and suppression
• Traits: Slow, near-unstoppable, at full biomass, capable of carrying or deploying smaller husks from its mass
• Notes: Typically deployed for structural demolition, biomass transportation, or heart anchoring.

One of Whottomuzz's guards was intercepted by some do-gooder;

Mr Usher redirected a few husks, combining the biomass of a pair to form a warrior proxy to intervene.

"Sit back down, Two-Mouth-"
One of the husk proxies said, placing a shoulder in the Ithorian.

It was the wrong move.

With surprising force, the Ithorian hurled the proxy over the ledge, mid sentence, resulting in an inadvertent scream.

More of the meat men rushed to Ithorian in retaliation – individually, they wouldn't stand a chance, but together they could buy time for the Kaleesh.

After all, it was only biomass – and letting off some steam never hurt too bad.

Location: Arena Audience Stands
Objective: Brawl in the Bleachers
Tags: Jerec Asyr ​

 

[Tilon Quill]

Portions of the stands and adjacent halls dissolved into carnage as a contestant attempted a desperate escape of some kind. Tilon found himself outed as a Jedi, desperately parrying blasterfire. "Go, Lurkvap!" he said over his shoulder, and with one last look of mutual longing, the Weequay he'd been having a nice time with disappeared into the safer corners of this place. As a general rule Tilon didn't feel much like a Jedi most days, but right this second it meant something. Maybe some felt like this every day.

Once Lurkvap was away safe, Tilon engaged in violence in the stands, reluctantly. He had no real aptitude for the lightsaber but he'd drilled hard enough at Soresu to keep other spectators safe, sometimes, one at a time. At least the enemy didn't appear to be an occupying force, more of a rearguard action, so he just had to outlast them. This was the Valley of the Jedi; that had to help.

 

[Sars Sarad]

Low atmosphere orbit.

A Luxury Yacht, The Gilded Dragonet had hovered unassuming far above the arena. Its systems had patched into the feeds that were being transmit by various droids. A Holofeed was viewed on a central projector in the bridge displaying the match between Antar and Whottoomuzz Chantin .

Reclining comfortably in an oversized chair he'd been observing the match when an encrypted transmission came through on his datapad. Mauve , relaying that the time was now. He didn't reply.

Sitting upright he'd have called out...

"Are the cannons hot?"

"Hot and ready to fire!"​

...came the reply from a Rodian Officer...

"Our target is the Hu---"

"Sir, something is happening down below!"​

...the voice of a Neimoidians called out.

Turning his attention back to the holofeed he'd watch as a wall of flesh intercept the orbital shot from the Ion Cannon then the Hutt take flight while reports came in across the bridge of chaos sown in the Stadium below on the surface of Ruusan.

Another voice, the Rodian again...

"Orders, Sir?"​

...a frown touched the corners of his mouth, Sarad had never liked unfulfilled orders nor accepting credits without showing results.

An opportunity presented, the Kajidic's Pride launched skyward amidst the chaos. Sarad nodded once...

"Target that vessel."

In response six Plasma Cannons, carefully concealed across the bronzium hull of the Yacht revealed themselves. Already charged and powered they would fire at the barge, unleash super heated gasses in the form of plasma energy that conventional shields proved useless against. In another moment the Barge may have disappeared, blinking out of sight yet it wasn't out of the question that it may have been struck by the powerful weaponry before it could do so. Surely such weaponry might disrupt its planned escape.

A Hand raised, Sarad rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. This was all the will of the force despite it being unfortunate, he could feel the subtle connection he shared with those on the bridge of the Yacht as though they existed like stones in a river, the force being water that flowed around them. As his hand came back down he'd have said...

"Disappointing."

...he'd have said...

"We must at least ensure the safety of the Info Broker. Fire a barrage on the stadium below, target areas around the skybox."

Moments later the Plasma Cannons readjusted, powered for another barrage of fire they'd unleash an orbital bombardment of plasma weaponry on the Stadium targeting the vicinity of the skybox. No shot targeted the skybox directly, Mauve needn't fear betrayal. Eruptions would rock the stadium all around the skybox though; every spectator, agent or bounty hunter that lingered near and had potentially considered the bounty on the Zeltron would risk immolation and outright destruction as the stands were to be split apart and rendered rubble all around the Skybox. It would be a field of death, the occupants anyone nearby who had considered raising a hand against Mauve .

Spoiler

Anyone in the stands around or near the Skybox risks orbital bombardment by Plasma Cannon fire

​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

More of the meat men rushed to Ithorian in retaliation – individually, they wouldn't stand a chance, but together they could buy time for the Kaleesh.

After all, it was only biomass – and letting off some steam never hurt too bad.

Jerec cracked his neck, which was a bit of a process, and pulled his gun. It was a really, really nasty gun.

Rather than blaster bolts, the multispectral radcannon fired low-visibility rays of hard radiation across the whole top end of the EM spectrum. Extreme stopping power, particularly against biomass. You couldn't be indiscriminate with a gun like that in a place like this and fortunately he'd been slinging one for decades, against Sith Lords on down.

He had six shots with it, but those six shots ought to cut some of this situation down to size just fine. That gave him time to rest the part of his mind that he'd used to chuck enemies into lava. Rest was good: he got the feeling that clearing the problem out, getting the stands back under control for the rest of the tournament, was going to need some additional tender loving care.

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

Moments later the Plasma Cannons readjusted, powered for another barrage of fire they'd unleash an orbital bombardment of plasma weaponry on the Stadium targeting the vicinity of the skybox. No shot targeted the skybox directly, Mauve Mauve needn't fear betrayal. Eruptions would rock the stadium all around the skybox though; every spectator, agent or bounty hunter that lingered near and had potentially considered the bounty on the Zeltron would risk immolation and outright destruction as the stands were to be split apart and rendered rubble all around the Skybox. It would be a field of death, the occupants anyone nearby who had considered raising a hand against

Ashin rose from her central seat in the skybox's commentator table and went around to the nearest panoramic window, which right now showed the inside of an enveloping curtain of plasma fire. She craned her neck and peered up at the ship doing the shooting. She could feel the heat right through the transparisteel.

"It's certainly nice to know," she told Mauve over her shoulder, "that after a century of life, one can still have new and interesting experience."

 

[Mr. Usher]

BRAWL IN THE BLEACHERS​

Spoiler: Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Mr. Usher – Biomass Construct Types

Husk (1 HP)

• Human-sized (~1.7m)
• emaciated build
• Role: Reconnaissance, infiltration, mimicry
• Traits: Fragile, quick, capable of speech and tool use
• Notes: Can impersonate civilians, workers, or low-level officials; often deployed in groups or as sleeper agents

Warrior

• Size: ~2.3m tall, muscular and predatory
• Role: Frontline assault
• Traits: Bladed limbs, enhanced strength, fast reflexes
• Notes: Highly aggressive; used for direct engagements and biomass harvesting in active zones

Prowler

• 1.5m at shoulder
• quadrupedal with elongated limbs
• Role: Stealth raids, sabotage, dismemberment
• Traits: Sinewy, silent, capable of wall-crawling and burrowing
• Notes: May cloak or camouflage in environments; often sent ahead to break defenses or ambush targets

Hulk

• ~5m tall,
• massive and heavily armored
• Role: Biomass hauling, brute force, siege and suppression
• Traits: Slow, near-unstoppable, at full biomass, capable of carrying or deploying smaller husks from its mass
• Notes: Typically deployed for structural demolition, biomass transportation, or heart anchoring.

The first husk went down with a wet crunch. Shoulder check, force throw, lava bath.

The second was pulped mid-air—shot clean through by something radioactive and unspeakably illegal. It twitched for a moment, tried to crawl with half a spine, and then sagged into gristle.

By the time the third leapt over a row of folding seats screaming “Down in front!” like it meant something, the whole upper section of the stands had devolved into a brutal, sweaty, meat-splattered riot.

One of Mr. Usher’s Warrior-class husks took a swing at a blaster-wielding attendee and got bisected vertically for its trouble—radburned from clavicle to hip in a single beam. It hit the floor in two symmetrical heaps.

Three more climbed over the barrier with terrifying speed and absolutely no plan, flailing with boneblades like spooked animals that still hadn’t accepted their own deaths. One impaled itself on a lightsaber. Another was flash-fried by plasma splash from above.

One particularly ragged husk wore a half-melted vendor apron and kept yelling:

“Popcorn! Roasted gundark leg! Fresh flesh—!”
It was clotheslined by a passing Jedi and crumpled with a squawk of deflated lungs.

Through it all, the pinstripe proxy sat in his seat, untouched, straightening his cuffs.

“How cathartic.”

A stray bolt atomized the head off of it. Off-world, the greater ego almost chuckled at the scene unfolding below. This would make for great viewing.

A Prowler-class husk crawled upside-down along the underside of the rafters above Jerec Asyr’s row, tongue flicking. It retracted its claws with a soft wet click-click, preparing to drop—

Until a stray bolt from the Gilded Dragonet’s plasma barrage shredded the ceiling.

It disintegrated mid-pounce. No scream. Just meat mist.

Scattered, scattered, scattered.

But not broken.

In the shadows of the maintenance corridors, another Hulk shifted. Waiting for the signal. Waiting to plug the breach.

This is where the fun begins.

Location: Audience Stands – Upper Ring
Objective: Absorb fire. Disrupt peace. Feed the entropy.
Tags: Jerec Asyr | Tilon Quill | Sars Sarad | Open brawlers welcome
​

 

[Darth Adekos]

RUUSAN​

Darth Adekos had been dutifully observing a couple of matches. One involved a wanker in a cape, but that one refused to become a spectacle in a timely manner, so he switched to the Hutt versus the loser. That one did become a spectacle, but it was for all the wrong reasons and it produced all the wrong outcomes.

Now he could not watch the screens at all, because the surrounding landscape outside of the skybox was being saturated with an orbital bombardment. A hive mind was attacking for some reason. Cartel terrorists everywhere and nowhere at once. The hutt hurled itself into a spaceship and fled disgracefully.

"Too new and too interesting by half. It's all just disjointed violence and meaningless chaos. No respect, no decency, no decorum... " Adekos sighed heavily, "Oh, yes... It's a true kaggath now."

Mauve Ashin Cardé Varanin​

 

[Xeykard]

His business with Adekos concluded for now, Xeykard prepared himself for the other two matters he had to settle -- when suddenly the crowd burst into chaos. Infiltrators and monsters left the audience dead and fleeing, a wall of plasma protected the commentators' box; those who could stood their ground, pockets of resistance against the flesh-creatures rolling into the stands. Xeykard had no interest in this fight; the deaths of some criminal spectators held no weight to him.

But among the spectators -- an opportunity. A presence he hadn't felt in a long time; one he somehow still remembered.

Two steps from the upper ring and he launched himself into the stands, crashing down behind the Ithorian Vigo. "Jerec Asyr," the Barabel snarled, "you have evaded this one's justice twice now."

He drew his saber, swinging brutally -- and obliterated one of the flesh-warriors that leapt at Asyr.

"Fortuitous, that the Empire died before you." He stepped forward, his strength cloaking him with menace. One of the smaller creatures climbed up only to meet the Sith's boot, crushing its head in one swift stroke.

"There will be a debt to be paid. But not now. Do as you will."

Another step forward, and his power surged ahead of him -- the smaller ones had limbs crushed, the larger ones dismembered with shattering lightclub strikes. Asyr was given a long respite.

Jerec Asyr | Mr. Usher ​

 

[Sal Katarn]

Inside the Stadium, Sublevel
Syndicate Safe Room

Sal Katarn smashed the activation panel to the vault and it slammed closed. He knocked on it with a fist.

“Reinforced blast door. Not bad,” turning ‘round he looked at the small interior - no bigger than a conex box. Couple chairs. Couple crates of food and water. And some boxes. He squinted at the boxes. Weapons crates.

He made his way over and started to peel the lid off one, curious about the contents.

“Guessin’ the walls and what not are all similarly hardened against bunker busters and the like.”

No sooner had he spoken than the earth shook and quaked. The mercenary’s brows shot up.

“Guess things are heating up out there, huh hoss.”

Razmir Tezhyn