Private Two Cents Short

[Soloman Priest]

---

​

Nar Shaddaa​

Sometime after midnight...​

​

The cantina had grown loud once again with the bloodthirsty cries of a crowd gone mad - ‘Iron Warden’ Tsyoki had taken down the old champ, ‘Red’ Ben and the crowds were loving it. Blood had been spilled, and the creds flew between hands faster than anyone could see; it was an interesting night, all things considered - but it’d only get more interesting as time went on.​

​

“In this corner, at 5’11” and weighing in at 155 pounds; ‘The Mandalorian’ herself, Sam Rodarch!”, he yelled, and so would the crowds - letting the woman enter the shock boxing ring with a moment to collect herself.​

​

“And in this corner, coming in at 6’2” and 225 pounds, Sooooooloooman ‘Dasu’r’ Priest!”, and as the announcer cried out his arrival, Soloman would enter.​

​

The man wore no shirt, and he was covered in scars. His face, foremost, was the most noticeable; with a long set of gashes cutting across his nose and cheek; making him look more intimidating than many fighters who entered. His hair hung long, auburn locks with a faint sweat to them - as this wasn’t his first fight of the night, and bruises covered much of his torso. Oddly, his face was unmarked - likely signaling where his defense focused.​

​

Wordlessly, Soloman moved to meet in the center of the ring - offering the Mandalorian his fist to touch; a sign of respect in the boxing community, but his eyes spoke something else. They spoke of hate, of anger - of a fight he expected to win with blood. The corner of his lips almost seemed to twitch, as though he were holding back a snarl.​

​

“Two Mandalorians enter, one Mandalorian leaves! Lets get ready to ruuuuuuummmmble!”​

​

And as the man took a step back, Soloman’s guard went to his face - as the bruises no doubt indicated, and his dance began. Left and right, left and right - he waited for Sam to strike first.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

New day, same old shavit.

A raucous crowd filled to the brim with every intoxicant at arm's length, spewing forth cigarra smoke that choked the room and seared eyes. At this point in the night the floor itself was inebriated, gulping down spilled drinks and rooting anybody that chose to stand still for more than ten seconds at a time. It was a dime a dozen scene that never changed, it didn't matter what part of the galaxy you were in, these kind of holes were eternal.

Nar Shaddaa always knew how to do it best though.

A woman stepped forth, scowl pre-affixed upon announcement as if her very nickname summoned a sense of self-disgust.

She wouldn't be the muse of any great artist. The woman's surly demeanour came with malformed features attached. Cauliflower ears, a nose broken and realigned too many times and a multitude of scars both old and new littered across her features. A black tank top provided modesty that was required on her behalf, not that anybody would have complained if both fighters were to be topless.

Sam didn't care, when you stepped into the shockboxing ring the concept of beauty took an entirely different form. Beauty was in fury, in every bloody nose and every broken jaw. Red and purple became the colours of the canvas and the more gratuitous the better.

A stiff expression sized up her much larger opponent, Samantha Rodarch already knew that he was the heavy favourite to win this bout. Whatever. Two hands still had a fighting chance.

Well, that and a body pumped full of stims.

Her fist touched his in the ritual of mutual respect, never something she gave herself but at least would take when offered. Respect wasn't a concept that got a lot of mileage down here, not in the face of desperation and depravity. They were here to hurt each other after all.

The bell was rung and so began the action, or, the invitation for action as her opponent put up his guard and waited. Luckily for him, Rodarch was not a tactical genius in the ring nor a great thinker of her time. Ideally, the Mandalorian just wanted to hit him, a lot.

There was little hesitation in her approach, a much lower guard held revealing an expression of pure ferocity, even malice. Her first fist thrown was a right-handed hook, it aimed to kiss his side, a good old jolt to the kidney to get things started.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman never moved from the strike, even if he saw it coming. The shock glove landed with a sickening thud before it sent a tazer into his kidney - and forced him to cry out, though muffled by the hands that covered his face. Even if he was ‘tough’, a shock box to the ribs never felt so good he could stop an outburst - but the point wasn’t to look tough, it was to extend her guard.​

​

Mandalorians all had a history of fighting, from youth they were forged in crucibles of hot beskar. Wrestling, boxing, firearms - all of it led to a macho society of killers who ate bullets and shat fury. Soloman was much the same, but unlike most - he had his own ability, to think. It’d served him well during his times bounty hunting, and even more so when he did less… scrupulous contracts.​

​

With her fist extended, and her guard opened - Soloman offered his own instant response. With the shock of her strike still running through his body, his muscles forced themselves into a lower set - and he let loose a single ripping strike that found its genesis in the muscular legs and hips of the Mandalorian Commando.​

​

The shock box flung through the air with a terrifying momentum, in the hopes it would launch the far smaller woman to the floor - and Soloman, whether it hit or not, would take a few steps back, hoping to get his own breath back from the strike he took. In that moment, he considered his own strategy again -​

​

Apparently ‘let them hit me, so I can hit them harder’ was a tactic instituted by Grand Admiral Thrawn; but he couldn’t be sure. Instead, he just offered a smile, spit some blood, and shined the crimson teeth to her in a vapid display of a smile -​

​

“Hurt, Mando?”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Instant gratification.

There was something so satisfying beyond words in such violence, the feeling of hitting someone at full force that summoned forth a raw and primal surge of pleasure. It wasn't a sensation that the woman could explain, it just was. It felt good, and so she did it. Simple as. Getting paid for such delights didn't hurt either.

The window to enjoy the moment was short-lived as his own response was swift and brutal in kind and while Sam might have hit hard, her opponent hit harder. Much to her frustration...

...and pain.

Actually, mostly pain.

First, there was the sheer force of the blow, which was twinned by an unhealthy crack that was only masked by the zap of the man's shockboxing gloves, which of course provided an unpleasant jolt but it was difficult to focus on such a sensation for the weight behind the punch knocked her off of her feet. All in the span of a couple of seconds.

This all summarised into a single package, again, was pain.

Finding herself on her back Rodarch was forced to sit up, a grimace and a sharp inhale accompanying such movement as her no doubt now cracked ribs protested. Mercifully the stims dampened the pain somewhat, as did ire born from his smug smack talk.

“Kark you.”

Wit might not have been Sam's speciality, but at the very least endurance was ready to be boasted and while trying to mask her discomfort the shockboxer returned to her feet. This could have been time for a feint, to try and draw sympathy and seem more fragile to lower his defence before unleashing a cheap shot.

This didn't happen.

Instead Rodarch launched forward once more, aiming another hook at the exact point she had struck before, as if the man having two kidneys was an affront to society.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman beamed at the woman’s fall, and the anger she offered in return to his smack talk was rightfully satisfying. Half the battle was getting in the mind of the opponent, years of Mandalorian operations had taught him that much; but what perhaps he didn’t expect was the girl to go after the exact same spot - much to the dismay of his kidney, it would seem.​

​

“Kark!”, he cried out as he could feel the eventually blood he would pass.​

​

The man however, didn’t fall - for despite perhaps what she hoped for, he was far too used to punishment than most others. Being a Firrerreo offered him that luxury, he imagined, and it’d only be a few hours before his kidney healed and he was back to fighting for his next cred; assuming of course the drinks he didn’t buy after this didn’t do even more damage to his kidneys.​

​

Still, the force of her blow had forced him to take a step back - but perhaps that was advantageous. With his weight on his back leg, he pushed forward with a heavy straight arm punch - followed by a deft jab, and then a hook. It wasn’t the most balanced of strikes, but the first was more than able to knock her senseless - would it hit - and the second, and third, may very well have been enough to put her down.​

​

If it weren’t for the fact she was stimmed up heavier than a junkie on Coruscant, which Soloman didn’t seem to realize in the moment.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Again her fist connected, again that instant gratification but aside from his shout of pain Sam's strike seemed to do little more than bully a singular organ, but hey, she was sure showing that kidney who was boss.

Then came her opponent's retort.

Not once, not twice, but thrice. With each consecutive blow that hammered Rodarch's features the crowd let out a gleeful roar, more than ecstatic to watch yet another knock-out tonight. Not that the woman noticed due to the first punch causing a temporary technical issue in her brain, just a small power cut, nothing to worry about.

Maybe.

A few seconds later Samantha found herself face down upon the mat having been spun by his parting hook shot, a hearty trifecta of throbbing mapped across her scarred features. Sometimes you just know when you're outmatched, and oh she knew but something stupid, bitter, angry and chemical spurred the woman's unsteady ascension to her feet once more.

With heartbeat in head, Rodarch faced him, broken nose spewing crimson alongside the cut of a fractured cheek. Stim-fuelled pinprick pupils took a moment to register Soloman 'Dasu'r' Priest as her visual focus struggled to comprehend both background and foreground simultaneously. The only element of her that hadn't been shaken was that rage, the frustration of such embarrassment only fed a fury that called for brutal vengeance.

A wobbly step towards him. Then another, slightly steadier. Barely a semblance of guard. Would it be the kidney again? Bets were being taken all around them if the mentally challenged Mandalorian would dare and the prices looked good.

Which was too bad for them when Sam suddenly aimed a snap kick at her opponent's left knee and just like that the rules of conventional shockboxing went out straight out the window. A time-honoured traditional on Nar Shaddaa.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman was more impressed the woman had managed to get back up at all - as the moment the first punch landed, she seemed to have lost a touch of her sensibilities. Yet, she had - after only a moment on the mat, she stood once more and pushed on. Just like a Mandalorian - to keep fighting, always on and on, regardless of the odds.​

​

Priest hated Mandalorians.​

​

He snarled as the kick landed hard on his leg, nearly hyper extending it; were it not for the weight he had on it, it likely would have put him out of commission entirely. No, instead it would simply hamper his ability to chase her - and a few more kicks to the knee weren’t going to feel any better; so where the tradition of Nar Shaadaa began, so too would Soloman enact his own brand of boxing justice.​

​

The massive man dipped low in a charge, moving to grab her by the hips in a full hug. It’d only take a moment were he successful, but his strength would be obvious; a twist of his legs, and she’d be thrown to the ground beneath his six foot frame with ease. He’d only capitalize, and move to mount up on her lap - hoping to slam those shock gloves into that face that mocked him, that which wouldn’t give up.​

​

He’d make the karking Mandalorian surrender, or pass out. That’s what he was put in the ring for - its what he was going to do.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The old kark the knee trick was admittedly a Sam Rodarch signature. For those who had witnessed her in action before, they knew one of two things: firstly, that betting against the woman was a strong shout and secondly, it was usually only a matter of time before frustration took over and like clockwork, she would kick the knee.

Most of the time it was debilitating but most of the time she was fighting people just as hopeless and as homeless as she was.

Not today.

He remained standing, worse still he barrelled into her and once more Sam was upon the mat but this time with her opponent straddling her. His motivations for this, of course, was to have a sensible conversation about the benefits of decriminalising spice in high crime areas. Oh, no wait, it was ground and pound.

The first fist hammered home hard as she squirmed, smashing into Rodarch's mouth and most definitely dislodging a tooth in the process. The attempts to protect her brain from further harm were largely futile, as the presence of shockmitts made guarding all the more difficult, each jolt giving spasms to her flailing arms.

All there was left in the end was rage and defiance. Eyes stared up at him furiously, and before another fist came down Sam spat her loose tooth at his face, not even needing to speak to say 'kark you' once more.

Then the world melded into blackness.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

The crowd grew wild as Soloman’s last hit landed and a Ref came forward to pull him back - Nar Shaddaa was brutal, but they weren’t exactly in the market for another boxer dying tonight. His eyes never left her as he was hoisted to stand by a rather large wookie - and when his hand was raised to show he was the victor, he spit what blood was in his mouth on the ground, and finally accepted she had lost.​

​

For Sam, a dingey, likely drugged up nurse ran onto the mat and brought others to drag the Mandalorian back with her. She had water run down her face, and a quick slap to check if she was concious - and would all else fail, the harsh scent of ammonia salts to liven her brain back to working order. Whatever worked, the nurse spoke in a gruff, unwomanly voice;​

​

“Ya’ alright kid? Took a right knockin. Sit ‘ere ahwhile, make sure nothin’s too wrong, aight?”​

​

With a squeeze of the thigh, the Nurse walked off - but could easily be seen grabbing her bet from the local deal maker. Soloman, across the room, did much the same - and walked away with not only his prize money for the fight, but the earnings he’d bet to make sure he won; meager as it was, he was far in the lead on odds.​

​

He moved to grab a black, slightly too tight, shirt from his locker - slapped back on his holster and HG-88, and found his way to the bar. Another night, another fight, and another excuse to drink.​

​

“One bourbon. Bottle.”, he said with a two finger beck and call to the Bartender.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Wasn't a good sign when smelling salts were your reintroduction back into the cosmos. Usually wasn't the sign of a winner but was, unfortunately, a familiar sensation for one Samantha Rodarch.

There wasn't much attention paid to the nurse attending to her moderately broken face as the Mandalorian stared off through the thick haze of a voice that had smoked sixty a day since the age of eight. Her brows furrowed in contemplation that grew ever more despondent as each second ticked by while her head felt about eight sizes too small for her skull as a familiar throb dominated.

Pain of a different sort came to the forefront as Sam watched about half the bar collect their winnings from the bookies an- even the nurse? She saw them, she saw them look over to her before erupting with their usual laughter and that was about the point where the woman could no longer watch, forcing her eyes shut and letting gritted teeth take over.

“Feth! Feth feth feth!”

Shockmitts were torn off and thrown to the floor as her under the breath tirade continued, frustration boiling over and letting shame spill over the sides.

She was a joke. The piss break fight. The idiot getting beaten over and over again because it was a hilarious spectacle. Even her ring nickname was a little snide joke. Sam knew this, and while she bucked back in anger on the surface of things it was grinding down her psyche something fierce (bargain basement stims probably didn't help). Was there a point of going on? What else could she do that wasn't this?

The woman had to physically force herself to get off the floor before the train of thought continued and spiralled off further into fatalistic thinking. Not even bothering to look for her tooth Sam finally trudged out the ring and made her way to leave the cantina.

“YO MONGOLORIAN, DON'T FORGET YER GLOVES!”

“Suck my fething deck,” came Sam's eloquent retort as she grabbed a glass on a nearby table and chucked it in the general direction of the taunt before continuing her loser's march, cheeks burning with both shame and injury.

Agitation refused to cease and the moment the back of her opponent at been spotted at the bar the woman made a beeline straight for him. There was little reason to be angry with him. It was a fight, they fought, he won, simple as but a hard buzz tinged by ire and embarrassment couldn't let go.

“Congratu-karking-lations, you're in on the fething joke now, pal,” she spat at his general direction, fists clenching and unclenching almost feverishly as Rodarch came up behind his stool, “bet it feels real good, huh? Real fething winner.”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

There was always a danger to having someone behind you at the bar, especially when out of the corner of his eye the mandalorian could feel the tightness of her knuckles. Were it not for the fact he had just whipped her, and she could barely stand straight as is - he would have stood up, maybe even drawn a gun - but she didn’t serve a threat to him now. Not unless she pulled a gun, that was - but Soloman doubted she could out draw him.​

​

So instead, he simply sipped his drink, glanced over his shoulder to her with his awash grey eyes, and simply shrugged -​

​

“Wasn’t a funny joke.”​

​

It wasn’t a harsh statement, nor did it carry any of the mock or scorn he had given her only a moment before. He knew what the fight was, and he didn’t take much pride in it - didn’t allow himself to find pride in beating up a novice, let alone someone half his size. In truth, he probably would have avoided it entirely if it weren’t for the money - and the threat of being cast out of the ring for the night.​

​

“So you gonna sit down and have a drink, talk this out, or are you going to swing on me again?”, he said as he slowly turned himself on the chair.​

​

“I’d rather you choose quick.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

A drink.

Were there not currently a scowl equipped upon the woman's face then there would have been at the very suggestion. Sam Rodarch knew enough about drink to chose never to touch the stuff (hilarious, given the basement amphetamines coursing through her system but nobody said she was righteous). The galaxy's slowest poison, it took good men and turned them yellow.

“No drink,” came the reply as the woman made the split-second decision to sit next to her conqueror for a talk because at this point trying to harm him would have been futile.

Would have felt good though.

Of course said talk would be like pulling teeth as she had never been the type for talk, mostly just rampant swearing. Sometimes you didn't need to talk, in the right situation two people could just sit content in the silence. Was this the right situation? Probably not.

Immediately elbows were propped up on the bar and her head was buried in her hands. Now that they were up close the man would be able to see that said hands were twitching and trembling in a manner beyond simple adrenaline. You might have thought that after a few moments Sam would have actually looked up and made conversation, after all, they were going to talk this out.

Nope?

Okay then.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

The Mandalorian glanced over the girl, but with a far less angry look. Without adrenaline in his blood, he didn’t hate her as much as he did - didn’t externalize his self inflicted hatred of Mandalorians on a girl who didn’t deserve an ounce of that. Instead, he sighed and motioned to the Bartender - who came shortly by with a large pitcher of water.​

​

“You’re high, kid.”, Soloman said as he pushed a glass in front of her, just to pour the cool refreshment.​

​

“At least drink some water. It’ll make you feel better.”
​

When he had at least forced that in front of her, he looked back to the holoscreen - spoke of news, of bounty hunters fucking up and shooting entire cantinas up; though as much as he wanted to judge, he knew all to well that he too had messed up a time or two. It often ended with more bodies than he intended - but he never deserved more than he got. That thought brought a sigh to his lips, before he glanced back to the girl to see if she drank the water -​

​

“Why are you fighting, kid? Got a point to make?”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

High?

Seemed a bit dramatic, and also accusatory giving cause for Sam's head to finally lift from her hands, the woman's totalled face snapping in his direction equipped with yet another variety of glower.

“It's battle stims,” she fired back defensively before glancing at the glass of water, which did look rather tempting at this juncture. Perhaps mercifully for the man she wasn't too prideful to turn down the refreshment at the very least, “they're just cheap, alright?”

Did she know? Was it willful ignorance on her part or absolute denial that Rodarch was pumping her body full of battery acid amphetamines instead of what she claimed? Hard to say, people kept hitting her in the head.

Picking up the glass, Sam downed the water in several large gulps as if she had been stranded on Tatooine for three days, saving the last mouthful to swish around her mouth to try and rinse out that familiar copper taste. Although it was a bold move to swallow the backwash instead of spitting it out. Waste not want not.

“Credits,” came the short response, “we all need to eat. That not why you do it?"

Brow furrowed and Rodarch found herself staring off into space as her mind wandered into tomorrow, would it be a payday then? The likelihood looked slim with cracked ribs and a mangled face. It had all fallen into a vicious cycle, low on funds, can't afford to heal up properly and as a result, the losing streaks got longer.

Feth.

“I'll win tomorrow.”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

“Sometimes.”, Soloman offered in response.​

​

He swirled the drink around, the liquid forming a slightly oily sheen on the top - likely a result from being aged in a wooden barrel. Rare for the region they were in, but it didn’t imply quality; and the taste of it only reinforced what he imagined was true before hand - it tasted like poodoo.​

​

Priest couldn’t help but risk another swallow before growling from the burn -​

​

“Sometimes I fight because I’m angry. Other times, for whats right.”, he said with a shrug.​

​

“Though not as much anymore, I suppose.”​

​

His hand moved to pour her glass full of water once more as he sniffled, ensuring whatever snot moved to drain from his injured nose didn’t find a new home on the gruff facial hair he hadn’t shaved in days.​

​

“You won’t win tomorrow, kid. Won’t win the day after either… Not like you are.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Anger, the great motivator. It asked the question, did Sam Rodarch fight because she was angry, or was the woman angry because she had to fight? Wasn't a question that was ever answered as being reflective only fed such furious misery.

A miserable silence descended upon them, downcast eyes and gritted teeth saying more truth than words ever could.

I know.

It hadn't always been this way, when she had first started out there were more wins than losses, but when the stims got cheaper and the injuries began to accumulate it all went south leading her to where she was today. What else could she do? Where else could she go? No friends, no money and no skills beyond fighting badly. It didn't seem to her like there were options, but then again Rodarch wasn't much of a thinker.

“No choice.”

This time she drank her refill like an ordinary person and not some parched lunatic, her hand wrapped around the glass with enough force to lessen the tremors somewhat.

“I just...”

Words hard? Try exclaiming in frustration and slamming your glass of water down.

“...kark!”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

The Mandalorian offered her a sad, vaguely sympathetic gaze - though it was momentary. He wouldn’t dare be caught expressing anything but smug anger - especially not to this… pup. He slowly moved another glass before her, shattered as her last one was, and began to pour yet another drink -​

​

“Always got a choice.”, he said quietly.​

​

“Just have to find the balls to pick.”​

​

Soloman took a drink himself, finishing his before pouring another for himself;​

​

“You got family here, kid? A home?”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

She wasn't quite sure what he meant by a choice and got far too offended by the suggestion of her not having any balls to consider it any further. Thankfully her outrage was only painted across her face and body and didn't come out verbally, but the new glass for her water was starting to look very nervous.

Shoulders hunched and lower lip jutting out with added petulance it felt like she was on the defensive but instead of fists it was words that hit hard.

“No.”

The tense body language told more than enough. No, she didn't have family here and no, she didn't have a home and further discussion on that matter would not be happening here. Bit of a sore subject and all.

Again, silence except this time with added awkwardness.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman made a quick glance to her tense posture, and noted in his own mind to drop the subject; not that he was especially good at conversations, but she was more than obviously a bit too drugged up, and a bit too much of a stranger to be asking about her personal life like that. Especially considering that he himself would never tell her what made his history so… black.​

​

Instead, he exhaled slowly, and shook his shaggy head -​

​

“You need to learn how to fight kid. Do something that isn’t… this.”, he said with a motion of his glass to the parties behind him now moving about to another fight - though this one consisted of far more oil, and a few more twi’leks in barely tied clothes.​

​

He wanted to watch, but resisted the urge - perhaps for Sam’s sake, perhaps for his own. His gaze returned to her, and simply shrugged -​

​

“Can’t exactly have a Mandalorian going around losing, afterall. Ruin all our reputations like that.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

If her teeth clenched any harder they might have shattered. It was almost as if the man was trying to upset Sam. First, he embarrassed her in the ring, then he tells her that she won't win tomorrow, then brings up painful notions of home and family, follows that up by saying that she needs to learn how to fight and then the cherry on top of this cake of rage he brings up the M-word.

Mandalorian.

“Don't call me that.”

Technically she was, had the clan name and all. Wasn't something that could be denied, and sure enough if you slapped on some beskar and gave her some crayons to munch then she would fit in perfectly. Dumb and proud. Clan Rodarch, however, had been exiled due to circumstance far beyond her control. All it had taken was one man to absolutely wreck the lives of so many.

It just made her want to...

“Have you got any karking advice then!? Or are you just gonna sit her and shet-talk me all night?”

Maybe she should have just swung on him instead of talking.

Soloman Priest