Private What in the Nine Hells Were You Thinkin'?

[Danger Arceneau]

“Honoring those who fell in the Battle of Kashyyyk between the One Sith and Republic, so many years ago, I give you the FIRST ROUND of the GALACTIC Kaggath!”

“A solider, a poet, a king…someday, maybe. Today, good audience, we find out if the pen is mighter than a cold heart made of durasteel. He’s the Wayward Bard of the von Ascania royal family. Hailing from Ukatis, LYSANDEEEEEEEER VON ASCANIAAAAA!

Danger nearly choked.

The sip of Corellian Reserve she'd just tipped back hit the wrong way, singeing its way down her throat like a liquid blaster bolt. She swallowed it whole, a slow blink masking the flicker of sheer disbelief behind feline green eyes that narrowed into slits in an instant.

"What in the bloody blue blazes…?" she murmured in that singsong, low and husky drawl, her voice suddenly tight behind a smile so practiced it might as well've been lacquered on.

With a click of her heels and the sweep of her hips, the Queen of Trade left the holotable, weaving gracefully through the crowd. Her datapad buzzed once again, reminding her of the three unread messages from some weapons magnate still trying to lock in a transport route, but she ignored it, eyes narrowing toward the edge of the balcony overlooking the massive Woshyr tree and the various Kaggath fights.

The arena cameras flickered, focusing on the next match.

And there he was -- even if dressed in that armor, Danger recognized him.

"Well, I'll be…" she whispered, lips drawn into a thin line as she stared down at the armored figure of a kid she had definitely not expected to find in a gladiator's ring. Especially a martial death tournament where contestants dueled each other to prove who was the mightiest warrior in the galaxy? Absurd.

She exhaled slowly, nose wrinkling slightly as she set her drink aside, but the longer the match dragged on the tighter Danger's jaw got.

At first, she'd watched with that same cordial poise, one hand loosely around a fresh glass, the other perched delicately on her hip. But as blows landed and the droid opponent moved with relentless, pitiless force, her calm began to fracture. Her fingers drummed sharp and steady against the balustrade, feline-green eyes narrowing with every crunch and clash from the pit below.

Why was he here?

How in the blazes had Lysander von Ascania ended up in the Kaggath, of all damn places?

Danger's lips drew into a razor thin line as the droid advanced again, saw the terrible flash of lightning, the vicious scream. Her gut twisted with a cold, burning mix of dread and fury.

Without ceremony, she snatched up her comm, flipping the cover with her thumb, then jabbed at the button. Her voice dropped low and sharp, lined with durasteel.

"Aeri," she said in a terse, but husky tone, "get me whoever's runnin' these damn Kaggaths. Need a handle on a particular fight to intervene if necessary before this damn fool of a child gets himself killed. And a medic suite"

She didn't need to say who.

However this ended, she wouldn't see it end with his life.

Not on her watch.

Medbay, VIP Recovery Suite

Shortly after the match…

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The medical monitor's pulse was steady, but louder than it had any right to be. In the quiet aftermath of violence, every artificial sound in the room echoed like a hyperspace flare against silence. The sickly sweet antiseptic scent of bacta hung in the air, undercut by the spicy burn of the cigarrillo smoke.

Danger didn't move.

Not at first.

She sat in a low, cushioned chair beside the recovery bed, her posture all that of a Trade Queen despite the storm churning behind her eyes. The room was VIP class, all smooth curves of permaglass and soft, muted lighting, with a view overlooking the wide curve of the Rusaan horizon. Dusk had painted the sky in streaks of lavender and rust, the distant suns bowing low to nightfall.

But Danger wasn't admiring the view.

Her gaze was fixed on the teenager in the bed.

Lysander.

He looked a far cry from the charismatic Jedi Padawan golden boy she remembered. He was a ruin of bacta wraps and synth skin covered in bruises already turning from violet to the sickly yellow of deep trauma. Synthetic flesh had been sprayed across one forearm where the armor plating had fused to skin, as there were rents in his arms and third-degree burns on his palms and fingers where electricity had chewed through flesh. Even the glimmer of a neural spine stabilizer pulsed faintly at his temple, keeping his nervous system from going into shock.

He hadn't screamed when they pulled him out of the fight. Hadn't moved.

He still didn't.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Danger lifted the cigarillo to her lips and pulled a long, deliberate drag. The ember flared a bright cherry red, casting a brief glow across her sharp cheekbones. She exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting like fog between them, curling toward the medbay ceiling in lazy whirls.

"Well, reckon you got quite a tale to tell..." she murmured finally, voice low and sharp with something too brittle to be amusement. She had already instructed Aeri to conduct a deep background check on Lysander starting from when she left him on Naboo until now. What came in the aftermath had prompted the Queen of Trade to down another glass of whiskey and two more Cigarillos before the briefing was done.

What in the gorram Nine Hells have you been through?...And what were you bloody well thinkin'?

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Danger Arceneau

The acolyte was shrouded in a heavy fog as an oddly familiar voice sliced through the air; it was one he could've recognized among a sea of people, for it was that of Dangeruese. Now, it tried to anchor him to reality.

Slowly, Lysander's senses began to return; he registered the medical bed beneath him, yet all of his limbs felt.. distant. His breathing was shallow and felt sluggish. Atop of that, there were whispers of pain, but they were distant, and somehow familiar, as they were echoes of another concussion experienced on Korriban months back, a cruel lesson delivered by a rival student.

One that was now rotting in the ground.

Nausea slithered through his stomach, a serpent of discomfort, and persistent ringing in the ears cut through him. Every muscle was heavy, as every sensation was like a dulled blade. Being consumed by darkness felt better than this.

His memory was like that of a malfunctioning protocol droid.. unreliable to say the least. He wasn't even sure if the final blow landed before or after he hit the ground. Several breaths were spent trying to recalibrate his awareness, but it was an agonizing affair, making him question just how broken he truly was.

Sequences of the entire day played through the projector inside his skull, blurring together, mixed with bright flashing lights. All the voices were muddled too. And the harder he tried to understand them, the more pressure built, behind his eyes.

Like a corrupted kyber crystal begging for light, emotions that were nearly foreign surged within him, and were more complex than the sting of defeat. Multiple chapters of his life passed since the tradeswoman saw him as a Padawan, a time when he wandered lost without purpose in the Mid Rim. A scar etched across the left eyebrow, and even more inked across his knuckles, he wondered if she had seen those too, aside from the mess he'd become today in the Galactic Kaggath. Still, even if his usual bravado were present, something deeper stirred beneath the surface. It wasn't love, nor was it longing; it was quiet admiration, something that carried warmth.

It kindled now.

His antics were well-known, stretching from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim, but that wasn't to say he was blind to the world around him. In truth, Lysander was always aware, always calculating. Somewhere between a ride to Otoh Gunga in a submersible along with burning down half a swamp together, he did come to one conclusion: she was one of the very few that saw past his recklessness, and one that seemed to actually care about him. And now, lying here, that belief was reaffirmed. But with that, guilt arrived, gnawing at him.

The Dark Side disciple would slowly try to shift from his current position, but all it did was bring a fresh wave of pain across the side of his face. One eye was reluctant to open, barely, but the other remained swollen shut. The concussion's grasp was without mercy, offering only discomfort and more confusion.

Whatever the woman had spoken earlier, didn't quite register, other than the familiarity of voice.

"Your voice," he rasped, "it still sounds like.. Naboo." Like another open wound, just the mention of the planet caused something deeper than physical torment to bloom inside; it still bled heavy with regret and burned like acid in his veins. He forced a slow exhale. "Part of me wanted to disappear," he confessed. "Maybe for good this time." Even scrunching his nose sent ripples throughout his body. The teen's tone became dry. "Ms. Dangeruese, if the afterlife smells like cigarillos.." a weak smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, "I'd much rather go to hell."

Gaze narrowing, he then looked up at the ceiling. "I just want to get back out there."

Yet, he currently had no idea where 'there' even was.

"Where.. am I? Where is Corazona von Ascania ?"

Gravity would not allow him to sit up, for he tried once more.

In the current state, his brain was more unguarded than ever, lest he begin asking for someone who'd already forgotten him. "Where is my Sibylla?"

 

[Danger Arceneau]

Danger didn't speak at first.

Didn't move either, save for the slight shift of weight as she crossed one leg over the other, smoke curling in lazy swirls by her head from the cigarillo perched between her fingers. Once again, thanking the void that she at least ditched the fake vapes and kept to the real thing.

And she needed plenty of the narcotic vice for what was to come.

To anyone from a distance, the Queen of Trade would look composed, almost regal. But up close, her jaw was set a little too tight, her bright emerald eyes a little too sharp. She wasn't watching the machines. She was watching him.

Lysander von Ascania .

Half boy, half man, and entirely too reckless.

Menfolk sure had a way of gettin' themselves killed, she thought with no amount of wry amusement, taking another deep drag, and the young ones? They just did it louder.

She didn't know why he was in that arena. Not yet. But her credits had made damn sure he got out of it. Without them and without a team of medics she'd browbeaten into working overtime, he'd probably be bleeding out under a tarp.

Not exactly a memory she wanted to sit with.

Instead, she watched and listened.

Watched him stir. Watched the pain draw across his brow like storm shadows. Watched his voice rasp out something halfway between poetry and a cry for help.

The words cracked something in her, and her expression couldn't help but soften.

He went on, drifting between confession and broken humor. But she could see right through the bullshit. The humor used as a mask. For there was something hollow in his eye, something lost. She'd seen it before -- in soldiers, in survivors, in herself on a bad year with too many names to mourn. But this? This was fresh. Raw. Like he didn't know whether he wanted to climb out of the crater or bury himself in it.

Her full lips parted, but just barely, the spicy white smoke trailing out between them as she gave a low but barely amused chuckle. It wasn't cruel. It wasn't warm, either. Just real.

"Well, I am hell," she said quietly, the words dry as Tatooine's Western Dune Sea, indicating that he was now with her if that's how he wanted it.

"And you're lucky all you're breathin' is spiced tobacco leaf and not bacta through a rebreather."

She leaned in to rest a forearm to knee, her cigarillo balanced between her fingers with practiced ease, fixing those emerald fire eyes on the boy trying too hard to act like a man who didn't care if he lived or died.

"That fool stunt you pulled down in that arena? That wasn't bravery. That was pain wearin' armor and hopin' no one'd notice the cracks....and it nearly got you killed." She didn't say it to hurt him. She said it because it was true. Her eyes softened then, searching the one green eye that wasn't fully swollen or bruised shut.

"You tryin' to disappear on me, Lysander?" she asked, quiet now, no judgment in the tone, just weight. "You best tell me why."

She took another slow drag, the red tip flaring crimson light before she flicked the ash into the nearby tray. Her background check could provide her plenty of information, but nothing would hold as true as what Lysander would provide. That is, if he so chose to.

Since he mentioned Corazona and Sibylla, the former she could only assume was a relative, but the latter required more information.

"Cause it sure looks like we've got more than just busted bones to sort out."

She didn't move from her chair but she stayed close enough that if he drifted too far, he'd hear her voice again. Close enough that when he was ready to talk, she'd still be there.

Waiting.

Because whatever brought Lysander to the edge of a Kaggath fighting ring, it wasn't just foolish pride.

It was ghosts.

And she wanted to know which ones were haunting him.