It is too fraking hot.
Objectively, the journey is minimal. 16.8 km from the city – which he avoided – on an average downhill incline of 8.33° lending to a standard rate of 11.4 kph, conservative pace owing to unknown distance to target and need to check sights frequently. The effort is halved by use of a bike, because why the frak wouldn’t it be when allowable within mission parameters. The journey on said bike is only 10.2 minutes, because jungle tract is a bitch and a half, and the operator is rusty. Then commences foot travel to avoid compromising location of target.
Objectively, a 9 km hike is nothing.
Subjectively, he has been fraking done since he stepped off the landing ramp. It’s too fraking hot. He’d thought it would be better here. The Selen he remembered had never met the word dry in its life. Surely humidity would be a welcome change.
But it isn’t. The air is heavy and feels like confinement. His tongue feels thick. His chest feels tight, even though his respiration and heart rate are at perfectly acceptable fraking levels and this level of exertion is for fraking tadpoles.
Every time he hears a bird make a sound, he reaches out and knocks his fist against the nearest available object: tree, rock, rifle butt. It’s infuriating. On the third time, he tells the arm to stop, and it refuses to listen.
It’s too fraking hot and his skin wants to detach and crawl off under a bush and his head is pounding with the constant unending shriek that is not being able to look over and see Flyndt.
Who, also objectively, is fine. Can’t get up to much trouble with Minnie all but sitting on him. The real trouble will be whatever those two have gotten up to when he gets back, putting their heads together.
But no sightlines is danger. Insecure. Apart. It is the sensation of falling when the ground has not moved from under him. He hates it.
-
However, Flyndt went and made friends with an apex predator that definitely isn’t native to the planet, nevermind the system, so that has to be addressed. At least investigated. Somehow. And so he tries to stop responding to every fraking coo or hoot in a tropical fraking jungle full of birds, because they’re not his, and just runs.
Tracking the karadeek had not been hard. Big motherfraker. Needed to land a lot between glides. He’s moderately surprised he doesn’t see it picking up any wayward children or dropping rocks on prey. Wide range to cover for hunting grounds for an animal that size means he goes far from the homestead and all the way up central Ussun to follow the fraker. The rifle on his back is more for tracking than a kill order; Flyndt would be sad.
But eventually, he’s surprised to see smoke ahead, a tiny column in the skyline, obvious. He remembers the Selenians having small pocket villages or homes, wonders if it’s one of those.
Or pirate scum camping in their own backyard. Who else imports a fraking karadeek?
If it was pirates, poachers, slavers, whatever– clean up. In a better mood, he would shoot them all and be done with it. As it stands, he has an urge to do violence. To make their operation into slag.
He gets close and doubles back around, coming up from downwind, eyes clocking to the skies every six seconds. Scanning the ground. No avian bombardments. No trip wires or signs of mines. Be proud, Jaxxie. Quiet, besides the roar of the forest and coast. Usually anything with big game or big trade is louder.
Vantage point needed. He finds a good tree, scales it, drags down his goggles and settles one eye to the scope. Scrolls through the settings. Heat map is almost useless. But not completely so.
He identifies: one large structure, one humanoid, one heat source – open flame? – three creatures of unusual size. The karadeek, what else? And only one figure?
- He reslings the rifle and loosens his knives in their sheathes on approach. Draws pistol. He is silent, and the brush clears into a kept space. Wooden house, cook fire, a goddamn reek, the karadeek, and something else he doesn’t recognize.
The sight of the reek makes static in his mind that sounds like roaring and stomping feet, tastes dirt, dry air, burns. He lifts his pistol, assessing.
Male. Zabrak. Big fraker too. Nearly his size. Lounging in robes half naked, petting at the one other creature. Something cooking.
Oh, great. It’s an exotic animal fraker.
He inhales.
One with a far too ambitious spice profile, doing horrible things to that meat.
The rest of the sweep is unremarkable. He is done looking. He cocks the hammer, waiting for the Zabrak to turn. If the pointy fraker can’t notice that small a sound, he deserves to be shot in the back.
Karran now had to split his attention between Baby and Drakor. The prodigal keeradak had a tendency to go off on its own, but would occasionally return for a visit. Its nest still remained up in the tree it had chosen, so it would return, roost for a few days, and fly away again.
Baby was, as always, demanding of attention and scritches. Drakor rarely was, but this time was different. He had landed on the ground and immediately required the Zabrak’s attention.
So Karran did the best he could, sandwiched by two massive creatures, to give them both the scritches that their thick hides demanded. Until he heard it. Well…not heard, but felt. A pinprick of heat in the back of his neck, just at the base of his skull. A subtle suggestion through the Force that he may be in some danger, but it was not pressing yet.
He whistled and called out in Zabraki and his two hounds came barreling from around the corner of his house and sat promptly in front of him, clear excitement at a prospective task, but maintained their attention through the training. Karran knelt in front of them and whispered his quiet commands as his hand rested on the lightsaber that sat in its holster.
He stood and whistled. The hounds took off at a 90-degree angle from each other, barking and yipping to communicate. They would sweep the woods for a scent and then loop in from opposite sides and flush their prey into the clearing.
They weren’t big hounds. They didn’t need to be on Iridonia. Prey there is fast, not big. They needed to be quick with lots of stamina.
The Zabrak turned to face the forest, his good eye scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. He took a deep breath through his nose, tasting the air.
Humid. Heavy.
He gripped the lightsaber and slid it from its holster. His thumb rested on the activation switch. Ready. Waiting.
Dogs.
Not one, but two. Wherever they’d been before, they’d overlapped each other. And now they were running around, yapping, and he knew where that would go. He thumbed the pistol over into its double-firing mode.
He had enough scars from alien goddamn dogs.
But then as he watched the Zabrak turned, and the object in his hand was familiar.
That familiarity went: shit frak damn and promptly cascaded into a calculated retreat. He would go back 2 km and snipe the damn jediit, no fraking thank you.
But the dogs were a complication. He wouldn’t be able to throw hunting hounds off so easily, nevermind over the distance back to the bike. Killing them would be a loud affair and alert the Zabrak. Or be mauling.
And if the jediit could command the dogs, could it command the karadeek or reek?
Hhhhqqqqeeee eeeeq eeeq eqqq, went some jungle bird, somewhere, disturbed perhaps by the running hounds. His arm twitched to disobey. Tap tap, rapping on a tree.
I’m here.
He watched his target notice the noise, turn towards it.
If only he had sunrise eyes at his back.
His finger let off the trigger. He stepped out of the brush, but still held the gun steady, aimed for the midline. Waited.
Karran narrowed his eyes. His thumb gently began pressing on the switch of his lightsaber, but he did not yet ignite it. He called out, projecting his voice across the clearing.
“I promise, I do not cut down trespassers idly. In fact, I have been told I am quite hospitable. However, I do become very suspicious of the ones that step out of the forest with a bead drawn on me.”
He rolled his neck. A series of audible pops followed the motion.
“I will give you three choices. You may leave, without a word. You may stay and explain how and why you wandered onto my land, perhaps over a pot of tea. OR, and I do not recommend this one, we can fight. One or both of us may die. But I promise I can close the distance between us before you can hit me with that rifle.”
The last he had checked, there would be between twenty-five and thirty meters between himself and the treeline. He had not stretched his muscles yet, but he was confident he would not cramp in this relatively short distance. He slowly flexed the muscles in his legs, testing how they felt.
A little stiff. Not ideal.
He let out two short, sharp whistles and the noise of the hounds in the woods ceased. The rustling of brush and their barks. He did not need his dogs getting shot over a simple matter.
“You get one chance to answer. I suggest you choose wisely.”
Well of course not the rifle. That was why he was holding a fraking handgun.
For a second, he considered shooting all the same. You may, the Zabrak kept repeating. As if he dictated the only choices here. It rankled of compliance. Obeisance. Obedience. He would not bow and scrape to another again, with animals to sick on him and games to dictate.
Hooooooo… went another trill, farther away. Only audible now the dogs had heeled, or the least been instructed to quiet.
But hot as it was, this was Selen, not those desert pits. And Flyndt was waiting for him.
He lowered his arm, but didn’t holster the pistol. Not with the lightsaber there. Two strides brought him into the clearing and away from tree cover, and his gaze flicked all about before he pointed at the keeradak with his free hand and grunted.
“Hrm.”
The Sith’s eyes glanced over his shoulder to Drakor and then back to the intruder.
“You are here for him?”
Karran thought for a moment. Most poachers didn’t carry slugthrowers. Unless this was a trophy hunter.
The Zabrak’s nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply.
I hate trophy hunters
“I am sorry, hunter. The beast is a friend of mine. I cannot let you take him.”
His grip adjusted on the lightsaber. His feet shifted on the soft ground. His right knee bent as he leaned over it. Muscles tensed as they prepared to spring into use.
A crimson blade of plasma erupted from its emitter. The dull roar caused by the Krayt Pearl in the crystal chamber was audible in the quiet of the clearing.
“He will not end up stuffed and mounted on a wall. This is your final warning. Leave, hunter. Find some other game to track.”
He hissed in frustration, shaking his head, tentacles whapping. His skin prickled to hear that hum, even stranger than some he’d heard before. But the difference didn’t really matter. They all carved through the same.
He started to gesture, then scoffed and shook his head again. Pointed at his throat, then back, then at the damned fire.
Tea, you shab jediit.
Karran cocked his head, confused, then looked at the fire, which had a fresh pot of tea hanging over it. There was also a light lunch of kebabed meat and vegetables (as well as some that were all vegetables, but those were reserved for Diy when she returned from the city).
Then he laughed. He doused his saber as he laughed. He laughed at himself. He laughed harder than he could remember laughing since the incident that had left him burned. He laughed so hard it took him a moment to be able to speak.
“A-apologies. You wish to join me for tea? Very good. Yes, please, come and sit.”
He whistled three times and the hounds burst from the underbrush, blew past the Nautolan hybrid, and joined their master.
“There is also food, if you are hungry. You have not spoken yet, are you able? If not, or if you prefer not to, I can provide a datapad for our communication needs.”
He did not flinch from the dogs running so close by. He just violently lowered his gun at last, annoyed by the Zabrak losing his fraking mind.
What was so damned funny?
Eyes narrowing and lip curling back from his teeth slightly, he huffed, holstered the pistol, and walked over without taking his eyes off the dogs or the reek. He drew his own datapad from his rear pouches and held it up. Then he typed shortly, and turned it back around to the laugh-happy hornhead.
What the frak is so funny to you?
Karran’s laughter finally subsided to a chuckle.
“It is difficult to explain. I am not sure why I find it funny, but I was fully ready to kill you just now over a misunderstanding.”
He poured the tea, offered honey, sugar, and (a recent addition) cream. Apparently some people greatly enjoyed cream in their tea, but it was not his cup.
He then gestured to the food as if to suggest he would serve the man.
“Perhaps Ruka has a point. I may be too quick to jump to lethal force. But if I am not mistaken, you were ready to kill me first?”
He snorted, hard, and nodded sharply, raising both brows. A critical glance at the tea spread was spared before he lifted one hand in refusal, then went back to typing.
Would still kill you if it suited me. Currently doesn’t. I didn’t come out here to be gutted by some jediit with an exotics menagerie.
The reek shuffled closer, and he took a step backwards. It nudged at the Zabrak. Distance to egress: 30 m. 4m climb up tree. Drop a goddamn grenade and hope it ate it.
He stayed where he newly was and held the pad back out.
Karran chuckled again as he manhandled one of Baby’s tusks, reached into a pouch at his belt, and produced what appeared to be a bar of what seemed to be chopped roots, dehydrated grubs, all cemented with a honey and nut butter mixture. The Reek gobbled it greedily as she received more scritches at the base of her tusks.
“Exotic Menagerie sounds so crude, except for my hounds, the beasts I keep are more…rescues. I buy the ones that the dealer I know says are being eyed by…less scrupulous people. Baby here is one of the kindest animals you will ever meet. Amazing with children, but a bit rambunctious when excited around people my- well our size.”
The Zabrak sipped his tea.
“But, for the sake of clarity, I am Sith, not Jedi. Although, I understand that to many who are less versed in our ideologies, they seem indistinguishable. Nor do I take offense. The Jedi were once great, but fell hard.”
Karran pulled two cubes of meat from his kebab and fed the hounds by hand, giving them equal, simultaneous attention.
“Now, what is your interest in Drakor, if you are not a trophy hunter?”
He did not, in fact, give half a frak about which ideology the Force-User identified with, nor his lack of understanding of Mando'a. The potential threat was still categorically significant. But it wasn’t worth commenting on.
He debated what to reveal for a moment, still eyeing the beasts whether or not their horn daddy thought they were kind, before responding.
Drakon is the bird? Your bird adopted my bird. Karadeeks are empathically not native to Selen. Needed to verify its origin, maintain safe perimeter. I suspected an importer. Black market, maybe pirates, maybe an extremely stupid rich frakhead with exotic pets. Can’t say I’m upset to be half right and not having to burn down some cartel ops.
He paused for the Zabrak to read, then added, scoffing,
Maybe a little upset not to be burning down some cartel ops.
He smiled, “On that, we can agree. Though I spend most of my vigilante time putting slavers out of business in the least pleasant ways possible, I do occasionally chase down the more unsavory of animal dealers. The ones that are needlessly cruel, et cetera.”
He thought for a moment. “If Drakor has found a new friend, then he is free to come and go as he pleases, as always. And your…bird is always welcome here.”
Karran eyed the newcomer. Appraising him. The way he had moved seemed familiar. Tactical, but not in the way DDF forces moved.
“Mandalorian?”
The comments on slavers got a wide, twisted smile out of the Nautolan, baring double rows of sharp teeth. He gave a, “hrm,” in response to the bit about his bird being welcome. The Zabrak, appropriately violent or not, had no business knowing about Flyndt until if and when Flyndt wanted to know him.
Their staring match continued, him watching the User watch him, sizing him up.
“Mandalorian?”
“Hrm.”
The pad turned again.
Erinos. Arconan, *jediit?
This line was punctuated with a jerk of his head back towards the city and its atrocious excuse for a castle.
Karran nodded and smiled.
“I consider Jax a good friend. We’ve been side by side in battle more times than I can recall. He also helped me during a…difficult time in my life.”
If this was an ally of Jax’s, Karran trusted his friend’s judgement of character.
“And to answer your question, yes, I am Arconan. Although, I do tend to live out here a bit like a hermit, though. But I like the peace. Fewer crowds. Fewer people. Less noise.”
All at once the Mandalorian went rigid, moreso than the relaxed predator poised to do violence that he had already been. As soon as that name left the Zabrak’s lips, a knife was in his hand, reversed in grip, ready to plunge. Nostrils flared, teeth bared red eyes blank.
The other words were noise.
0.31 m to close distance. 0.43 kg pressure sufficient to penetrate carotid artery. More for bisecting trachea. Inefficient. Possibly fatal against Force-User. Angle blade 98° and jam through eye socket, into frontal cortex.
His wrist flexed.
Hreeeek hreeeek hoooo….
Wanted to knock.
He reminds himself: wait.
Consider: Flyndt. Jax.
Consider likelihood that target knew of him previously to now and engineered the karadeek’s encounter with Flyndt, and thus his arrival, in order to manipulate Jax: astronomically low.
Consider likelihood that any messily killing any friend of Jax’s would cause distress: high.
Consider likelihood that the one random Arconan motherfraker he meets out in the fraking woods with a fraking giant bird Flyndt made buddies with is also someone Captain Hugs Justice and Friendship would have made friends with sometime in the last five years, given his close service with the Users: as tall as the puppy-eyed fraker himself.
Goddammit.
He lowered the knife. For the moment.
Typing one-handed was so fraking annoying.
Deciding whether or not to stab you. You know Jax how?
Alarms flared in Karran’s mind, but he ignored them. Nevertheless, his muscles tensed. So many instincts told him to grab the figure in front of him and bring their foreheads together violently. But instead he spoke.
“Did he ever tell you about Kyrellius Station? I oversaw that raid. We met during my stint as captain of the Voidbreaker. During that time, we became close friends. We fought side by side many times. He saved my life a few times, and I saved his. Fewer times, though, if I had to guess.”
This man was definitely on edge. Best to tread carefully.
“I would kill or die for that man. Would you like me to call him to verify my statements?”
He ran over the testament, analyzing. Unfamiliar reference. Unfamiliar designations. Sounded like Jax though.
Lowered the knife another inch. Considered the offer.
Nodded.
Karran held both of his hands up and open, then pointed to the comlink on his wrist and slowly reached to activate it.
“Jax, it is Karran. I believe a friend of yours wandered onto my homestead and he has doubts about our friendship. A tall, black skinned Nautolan, by the looks of him.”
He thought for a moment.
“Oh, and let me know when you are free. It has been too long since we had a good tea and sparring session.”
A familiar growling voice issued from the communicator, “Foxen?” it asked, sounding shocked, and then, delighted, “Foxen, you are making friends with Karran?! That is wonderful! Oh this is fantastic. Unexpected, but of course fantastic. Kikkalekki be praised. Foxen, Karran is a trustworthy and honorable comrade, please do not shoot or stab him. Karran– ah, but could I be there in person for this.” They seemed to enter the Zabraki portion of the evening as Jax spoke next with strong emotion, words only Karran would understand, “My friend, meet you this day the man who is my brother. More than only my brother in honor. We are blood bound and tied. It is a rising sun in my heart for you two to meet.”
Foxen didn’t need to understand the words to roll his eyes nearly out of his head, issuing a long hiss. Jax was still going, back in Basic, ramping up now.
“…and I am most certain you two would have a lovely time discussing the particulars of grilling methods–”
The now-named Nautolan made a disgusted noise and promptly reached over, jabbing the button to disconnect with one sharp nail. He glared at the comm as if it offended him personally.
A few seconds later, his datapad chimed. His expression had gone from deadly to annoyed in the nuclear degree and a low series of grumbles followed sharp typing, tap tap tap taptaptap.
The knife was stowed.
After a moment, the pad was turned back around, that perfect executioner’s edge of tension bleeding out of the Mandalorian in increments. He did not relax. At all. But Karran’s senses beheld no further danger.
Asshole says he has time tomorrow for your fraking tea. I am not coming, and we are not friends. But if you would kill for him and have saved his stupid-ass life, then I won’t touch you unless you give me a reason to. I owe you. Call on it and it’s done.
Karran smiled.
“You cook?”
He held his hands up, defensively. But he was pleased that so far this encounter had ended without a bloodbath.
“Before you go. Would you like to fight? I won’t kill you, and I ask that you not kill me. Or, if you are hungry, I invite you to share my meal.”
The Nautolan kept stewing, nodding at the cooking comment and then tilting his head at the latter. He eyed the Zabrak, then shrugged. Typed.
Won’t kill you. Won’t promise not to hurt you. Can’t.
“I don’t believe I can ask for more than that.”
The Zabrak gestured to the sandy ring of stones that sat just on the other side of the garden.
Karran stood very sowly, and removed the barely existent shirt that he wore, putting the multitude of scars on his body on full display.
The three deep gouges on his chest from the Terentatek. The eerily straight knotted line up his back from Marick’s blade. The burns that covered the entire left side of his body.
“Do you wish for me to abandon the Force for this match?”
Foxen looked the man up and down, lingering like a holo taking tactical scans on each scar, then shrugged and shook his head. He stood up too, unholstering his rifle, eyed the animals again, then offered the pad.
Fight like you’re born for it, jediit. Beasts gone though. Don’t want them close. Rules?
“Non-lethal. Energy weapons set to stun. My saber will be turned down. It should notcause more than a mild burn on contact.”
He gave one long, sharp whistle while creating a circle in the air with his finger and the hounds took off into the woods while Baby went and hid under the house.
Drakor never took orders well, but flapped up into his nest, nonetheless.
Finally, Karran finished the walk to the circle.
“Ready?”
Watching the reek squeeze itself under a goddamn porch might have been mollifying, if he didn’t know how easy it would be for the thing to burst right through. Having the animals less present though decreased his respiration to just slightly above baseline, though. Still too damned hot.
And.
Foxen stared at his hand, which trembled finally. Heart rate was still increased.
The Nautolan shook his head in answer to the Zabrak. With the given parameters, Foxen set his rifle down. Then his handgun. Then the grenades. The backpack followed. With only blades hidden on him in multitude, he walked over to join Karran, extending the pad one more time.
No saber. No burns. Anything else. You can have one of my knives if you want.
Karran removed his saber from its holster and ceremoniously placed it on the ground just outside of the circle.
“I will forego weapons, then. Fists, feet, and horns.”
He stood on his side of the circle and bowed.
Foxen nodded to that. A knife reappeared in his hand, and he bowed too.
And then he lunged, spinning and slicing at Karran with one hand while the other chambered elbow trailed to slam into soft organs.
Karran ducked back, thinking that the elbow to the guts would be preferable to a blade anywhere.
He reconsidered that idea when the hit landed though. Foxen was strong. And worse, he knew how to hit.
He grunted as the blow landed. His hearts pounded as the adrenaline set in. First he threw his own elbow, intent on striking the Nautolan’s jaw, then moved to drive his knee into his opponent’s solar plexus.
*If he is amphibious, is his anatomy even equivalent to mine?“
Karran hoped it was close enough for his target points to be effective
Foxen juked aside of the hit to his jaw with a tilt of his neck, the Zabrak’s elbow slamming more softly into his headtails an ignorable hurt. The knee that impacted was trickier, probably would have dropped a standard humanoid stunned.
The Nautolan grunted silently and kept moving. Elbow, elbow, knee, knife, all aimed for vital points. The Zabrak dodged two with unnatural canniness, bore the brunt of a strike to his spleen, smacked aside the knife. Another replaced it in Foxen’s hand between one of the mammal’s blinks and the next.
Karran was strong too, as strong as he looked. His footwork was slippery, dancing, but it had a lag to it, a jitter as though instinctive movements were hampered by trying to turn into something else; low turns, thin profile, hands twitching together as if swinging to chop with an axe– or that saber.
He’d killed Zabraks that dance-fought better than this. Mandalorian Core wasn’t an art. It was a weapon.
The Nautolan jerked left, ducked, and pistoned his elbow down towards Karran’s blinded eye.
Karran did not see the strike coming for his eye until it was far too late.
What most people don’t realize is that getting hit in the orbital socket can cascade other problems. First, his vision went white. He staggered back trying to create distance between himself and Foxen. Second,he felt pressure building behind his sinuses. As his vision returned, he pressed a thumb to close his right nostril, exhaled sharply, and ejected a large clot of blood and mucus. He never took his eye off of his opponent. Not even when he tested the bones around his eye and found them to be sensitive.
Most likely a small fracture. Nothing to worry about now.
His hearts beat like bass drums. Blood streamed down his face, steady, but not enough to be at risk of blood loss.
His chest was hot. Fury welled up inside him, like a great beast straining at the end of a chain.
Not yet. Control.
He had to push back. It was time to probe Foxen’s defense.
He lunged forward and jumped. A flurry of kicks from legs like tree trunks, unnaturally fast for his size. They were all telegraphed from a mile away, but he hoped it would be enough to pull the Nautolan’s defense up and open up his legs and body. Nearly four-hundred pounds landed in a crouch on the sand and spun, seeking to drive a heel into the side of the Mandalorian’s knee.
Unfortunately for Karran’s testing of defenses, Foxen didn’t budge in his stance, despite the obviousness of the kicks. Instead, his tactic seemed to be to simply endure the beating, using his raised forearms and pivoting hips to turn girders of arms into the blows of those tree trunk legs, meeting and bracing each mighty, preternaturally fast blow. The rhythmic rush of meaty smacks filled the quiet clearing as Foxen was shoved kick by kick, centimeter by centimeter, closer to the edge of the ring of stones. Each contact promised deep bruising, down to bone, forced another thin throwing knife out of the Mandalorian’s grip.
It was like watching two mountains wrestling. Two hurricanes connecting. Both titans, they seemed to take all their power and cancel out when they met, equally strong, equally tough, differing only in finesse of skill and supernatural ability. They seemed matched.
At least, until Karran leapt, landed, and spun. His enormous leg swept out, heel driving for the Nautolan’s knee. But Foxen, eyes clocking down, did not try to dodge. Much like the other kicks, he let it happen. Only instead of absorbing the impact that would have dislocated his kneecap if he tried to brace, he simply dropped.
His entire body weight, as heavy as Karran was, fell right down onto the Zabrak’s extended leg, a locked elbow focusing that weight straight to one point of contact that hit first, the rest of him crashing down after. A loud, sickening snap, muffled by its sheathe of skin and sinew, sounded from Karran’s calf as sand flew up around them, trailing the descent.
Karran roared in pain through gritted teeth. He instinctively lashed out to kick his opponent away from the injured leg with his good one.
And the beast’s chain broke.
In an instant, his hearts were beating double then triple time. Veins pulsed through the skin as they struggled to keep up with the volume of blood being forced through them. Teeth clenched so hard that gums bled. Pain disappeared. Only rage, fury, and bestial bloodlust.
The list of things that had ever sent Foxen flying was short: explosions, hovertank, speeder truck, the animals from the pits the size of hovertanks and speeder trucks, like that reek, and ‘Users.
Fraking typical.
The Nautolan felt the sharp, thin crunch of broken rib bones as he tumbled away, using the momentum to roll himself up to his hands and knees and regain his feet. Pain came with movement, breath. Set status: ignore.
Draw knife. Resume stance. His eyes searched for a point to throw–
Karran moved. Got up. Barreled towards him. On a broken leg. The Zabrak’s veins and muscles bulged and blood dribbled down his chin and from the milky pustule of incinerated eye from the earlier hit. He bellowed as he ran, like some beast. His gait was uneven but that didn’t matter when he kept going. Lowered his head.
Closed distance of 0.83 meter in a heartbeat.
Foxen slammed the knife home into presented shoulder even as the weight crashed into him. Just like a hovertank. Or a reek. Maybe worse. Reeks only had the one big horn.
He’d just gotten stabbed by approximately twelve of them.
Ignore. Retract knife, stab again. Again. Again. Arm should have gone limp by now from severing of tendons and rotator cuff. He wrenched the blade aside in a slice while blood poured down inside his lightweight armor and horns lifted out of his sternum, peered closer. Circuits.
Sonuvabitch–
Foxen hissed, tossed the knife up, caught it with his other hand before Karran could rear back entirely for an ape-like swing of two fists, and surged forward, under the raised arms, stabbed up into armpit on the opposite side of the fraking cybernetic. This time, blood sprayed, and he abandoned the blade there to keep running, skidding through the sand as the roaring Zabrak reached after him.
If he got caught by a headtail, he would cut it off.
Karran’s fingers closed on air, though Foxen felt the brush of them and his blank face made a sneer of disgust. Not Flyndt– not acceptable.
Karran felt the cuts, the stabs, the broken bones. He knew they would hurt later, but for now they just didn’t register. His body kept moving, everything kept working.
He was in control, mostly. But Foxen didn’t make it easy to pull punches.
He reached under the arm where the blade had been left buried and removed it before tossing it to the side. Sand immediately covered the blood coated blade.
For all that he could ignore the pain, the one that was causing him concern was the growing sharp feeling in both of his hearts. The knife hadn’t been long enough to reach one of them, so he certainly didn’t have internal bleeding.
He shook his head. Bigger issues now.
“You are very good with a blade. I cannot wait to see you actually trying to kill someone. But in the meantime, I do not like to lose.”
He charged forward again. He just needed to get his hands on his opponent. If he could do that, he could get him to the ground, and if that happened, he had a shot.
Foxen didn’t intend to give Karran any such opportunity.
He swiped up two of the throwing knives the Zabrak had forced him to drop or discard as he ran past. Spinning around, he backpedaled towards the opposite edge of the “ring” until he felt his heel touch stones, watching Karran pull the blade out, seeing blood spurt; not enough to kill, hadn’t severed an artery, because he had said he wouldn’t.
Maybe in a different situation, he would have mouthed back to the Zabrak, I don’t lose.
But now wasn’t that time. The behemoth charged, still on that broken leg, and Foxen vaulted left while throwing each knife, one after the other. At the same time, he dug the toe of his boot under a stone, kicking it up into the air, grabbing, and throwing.
The knives sailed right on by the charging bull of an animal man, embedding in the sand, making a triangular array along with the blade lying flat and bloody. The rock sailed for Karran’s ankle– the one on his broken leg.
He didn’t stay to see if the rock impacted, though he heard a meaty thump. He ran again, repeating the process of kicking up, catching, and throwing another then another over his shoulder, slowly demolishing the barrier of their ring, just trying to keep the fraker away from touching him.
One throwing knife left. It slipped into his palm.
Karran huffed and puffed. His breaths were becoming harsher and more ragged. That pain in his hearts hadn’t faded. In fact it had gotten worse. But that was nothing compared to the… dozens(?) of cuts and stab wounds that decorated his body. His clothes had been all but cut to shreds.
“You huff are wheeze very slippery. And I respect you. But you must be starting to run low on blades. And I will eventually get my hands on you.”
Karran coughed and spat onto the sand, more blood. Not sure of the source. Could be a punctured lung. But it didn’t feel like it.
He had to end this soon. He dug his feet into the ground and took a running start. From a standstill to a sprint with all of his strength. He, felt his leg twinge. He was definitely making it worse, but it would heal. Eventually.
He opened his arms wide to tackle. No form. No technique, raw strength.
Frak–
The Zabrak jediit was too fast, too strong, flying right at him. 1.2 m to close.
He could move, try to dodge, or he could end this. Maybe both?
Hah, end this. As soon as that fraker got hands on him again, it was over.
0.9 m
Only broken bones. Only crushed. He could take that. Ignore. Endure. Move. Fight. Put on the show. No show meant punishment, correction. Burning.
No, no burning, he’d said–
Didn’t matter.
0.5 m
Fine. He could stand that. No show. Accepted. A draw. He could manage a draw.
But he wouldn’t lose.
He couldn’t lose.
Losing meant death.
Foxen didn’t dodge, and he didn’t brace.
He chambered his arm, aimed, and threw.
The knife sailed right past Karran.
0.05 m
Ping! went the knife off of one planted blade, then ping off the other, and ping into the last, flat, and then–
Karran crashed into him. The knife bounced up and buried halfway down the blade into the Zabrak’s lower back.
They hit the ground.
Cracked ribs crunched. He felt his arm pin under him, a moment of bending, close to a snap. The thick arms locked around his middle squeezed with more force than a hovertank ever had going for it. His breath left him all at once, the choking wheeze that followed wet. Bloodied. Ribs punctured something.
Sharp chest pain. Set status: ignore.
Fraking struggle.
The Nautolan writhed, trying to lock his legs, still free, around the Zabrak’s broken one and twist at the hips. A bellow sounded, and then he was being lifted and slammed back down on his side as Karran rolled them, smashing him like a doll. Breathless, bleeding out the holes in his chest, no leverage. He couldn’t push the Zabrak onto his back, and the knife, like this. Sand filled his mouth. Choking, Foxen jerked his hips, locked his ankles, pulled.
Karran could suffocate him, or he could keep his leg.
Karran felt the leg lock and yelled in pain.
He grabbed at the front of Foxen’s clothes until he had a firm grasp on the shirt.
He took a deep breath and let out a bestial roar.
With a single motion, he pulled the Nautolan off the ground and slammed his own head forward. Their heads collided with a crack.
Karran groaned and rolled off to lay on his side in the sand.
“C-call cough call it a draw?”
Foxen was too busy wheezing in breaths to respond for an entire 84 seconds. Then, when he was less concerned for organ failure due to cyanosis, he sat back up – the world tilted sharply and nausea roiled – and took stock.
Assessing.
Each breath was agony, set to ignore. Punctures in chest. Possible puncture to lung or pleural cavity. Broken ribs. At least three. He pressed at them with his fingers. Possible concussion. Monitor.
Call it a draw?
“Hrm,” the Nautolan grunted, and gave a single, careful nod.
Then he reached over, gripped Karran by shoulder and knife by handle, and yanked the blade out of the Zabrak’s back.
To the sound of pain he got for that, another surge of suspicion perhaps, he held up his hand, finger up. Wait. Pointed at the ground. Stay.
The Nautolan climbed to his feet and made a reasonably straight line back to his gear. He removed the med pack from it, then walked back to the jediit and sat down.
Hypospray quickly applied to stab wounds to deter active bleeding, initial disinfectant – sand was a fraking bitch to injuries and prone to infection. Nearly all of his scars in the last half decade had come with such nastiness. So they would need cleaning and debriding. But the Zabrak could do that his damn self later. For the moment, Foxen just went about measuring splints against Karran’s leg, silently working on cutting lengths of plastiques and bandage.
Karran nodded as the Nautolan walked away. Upon his return, he waited, his eye twitched at the disinfectant, but otherwise? Was quiet.
“You’ve earned yourself an ally today, Foxen. If you need anything, call and I will answer. You have my respect.”
The Sith cringed as his leg was set and splinted.
“I do wish you had not done that bit though. It reminds me of the first time I was thrown into the fighting pits on Tatooine. A man twice my age picked me up and dropped me on his knee. I was fourteen.”
He extended his hand. He half expecting it to be slapped away, but offered it nonetheless.
Foxen stilled briefly at the story. He stayed still for several seconds. He looked at the hand for several more seconds.
“Hmm,” he hummed, then nodded at the hand, but didn’t take it. He turned to finish tying the splint. Then got up, fetched his pad, and came back.
A few minutes of painstaking typing followed.
Damn punctured lung and ribs.
Finally, he handed the pad back.
163 days ago I was in a fighting pit on Tattooine. I had been for five years. A slave again. Jax thought I was dead. And I was. I am. My “bird” gave me something back, though. Now, I fight for him.
I’m not sorry. About your leg. Then or now. I don’t care. But I do owe you. For protecting Jax’s life when I was gone and for enabling something that makes my bird happier. Even a goddamn karadeek. You have three asks. Anything. Anytime. No questions. Done. Might even take you up on your offer. You’re a deadly motherfraker. Not shaking, though. If we’re not fighting, do not fraking touch me or I will take the hand.
The last paragraph had been added after a long pause in the typing, in which Foxen looked at Karran again, then back down.
I asked for no burns because drying and burning were how they got me to comply in the ring. Next time I won’t break your leg unless I have a reason to.
While he handed it over to be read, the Nautolan began binding his own chest, pulling tape tight around his ribs and hissing in small, short breaths.
Whatever Minnie and Flyndt were doing, she had better be keeping him distracted enough not to look at the chip readout until his heartbeat and respiration were back to baseline.
Karran nodded and retracted his hand. He closed it into a fist and brought it to his chest and tapped twice.
“I expect no apology, you behaved within the rules we agreed upon. You have even taken a greater step of honor in helping me with my wounds.”
The Zabrak grimaced as he moved to his feet. He would have a lot of explaining to do when Diy got home.
“The invitation stands. You and your bird are welcome to come and eat your fill whenever you wish.”
The Nautolan nodded to that, arching a pierced brow when the Zabrak stood.
Need me to carry you in?
Karran shook his head.
“I can still move on my own. Besides, I do not think I can ask any more of you. I will sit awhile longer and enjoy the fresh air. You are welcome to join me, or don’t. I encourage you to help yourself to the food I’ve prepared.”
The Sith hobbled to the table and eased himself down.
Well if the jediit wanted to press a broken leg, his choice.
He had a hike with broken ribs ahead of him.
As he got up to walk past, the Nautolan at least paused to sniff again, reaffirming that no, he would not be taking any food. He collected his used knives, reholstered pistol and rifle and explosives, rechecked the reek. Glanced at the rocks he’d tossed, considering the sparring ring. Its disruption made his headtails twitch. But ribs.
And Flyndt.
Foxen paused at the edge of the clearing, turning fully about, and crossed forearm over chest in a Mandalorian salute to the Zabrak. Then, he started the trek back. Objectively, even with current sustained injuries, not long.
But every step away from home?
Those took forever.