The Citadel Cantina is located on the second level of the Arcona Citadel. The bar itself is small on the surface, but possess an expansive selection thanks to a clever servos-operated storage system built into the underside of the bar. A bartender only need punch in what drink they require (other than the typical stock) and within a minute the bottle is distributed transparisteel display panels. Relaxed, soothing music plays over the speakers, and a big-screen display terminal with access to the holonet sits across from a series of comfortable lounge chairs and stools.

The Cantina is full-service and is manned by a gruff, one-eyed Rodian named Mick. Mick is a grumpy, former sergeant who served in the Arcona Armed Forces years and years ago. He goes about his business with a series of grunts, gestures, and monosyllabic dialogue. Though a man of few words, he's a genius of alcoholic beverages and mixology. Mick has a very strict rule about no fighting or brawling within the Cantina. The mess hall, on the other hand, is a different story.

The Cantina opens up into a dedicated mess-hall that can hold up to a hundred sentients before it starts to feel claustrophobic. Open at all hours, the mess-hall has been sanctioned as an acceptable area for members to settle aggressions and other frustrations. The tables are all firmly bolted into the halls floor to avoid being thrown over, and are crafted out of durable material that has held it’s own throughout the years. At the far end of the mess-hall there is a pair of double-doors that lead to the kitchen and storage area. The mess-hall is maintained by a full staff of droids, and occasionally a new recruit who has earned the ire of the Rollmaster.

“So there we were, facing down the tank. Marick knew that we needed to get past it. It seemed a tall task without giving away our position, though. So, I stepped up, focused on the tank, and then threw my hand out to the side and said--”

The glass in Troutrooper’s grip tilted precariously as the Mon Cal’s flipper mimicked the gesture of his narrative. Fluorescent blue liquid sloshed out onto the counter as a result.

“--pull my flip--er, oops.”

Mick, the resident bartender, grunted and shook his head. He pulled a linen rag from his belt and quietly wiped up the spill. In the same practiced motion, the one-eyed Rodian reached under the counter, pulled out a nozzle-topped bottle, refilled the glass and gestured towards the counter. Troutrooper nodded and set the glass down on the solid surface. They exchanged looks, bulbous eyes moving from the drink, to each other, then back down at the drink.

Mick reached under the bar again, came up with a long straw and wordlessly slid it into the glass.

“Thanks, Mick,” Troutrooper hiccuped.

The bartender grunted and then looked at the Mon Cal expectantly, making a “go on” gesture with one hand.

“Oh, and then I blew up the tank,” the Dark Jedi Master finished blandly as he took a sip of his drink. Mick grunted and disappeared down a set of stairs into what Troutrooper presumed to be a storage cellar, leaving the Elder alone with his beverage and straw.

Something flickered across the edges of the Mon Cal’s awareness. The disturbance in the Force was subtle, a veil clever enough to fool anyone who did not know what they were looking for. A room simply felt different when only one person occupied it as opposed to multiple people. In this case, it was the lack of presence that gave something away. A stranger had entered the cantina.

The Dark Jedi Master paused mid-slurp. “Speaking of blowing things up,” Troutrooper said aloud and without looking away from his drink.

A hooded figure appeared at the entrance of the cantina, clad in various shades of ebony. A bone-white mask broke up the theme of dark clothing, and a pair of cyan orbs glowed through the hollow eye-sockets.

“Sorry, but I don’t believe in ‘ghosts’. Come back later.” The Mon Cal waved a flapper in dismissal.

The ghost said nothing and continued to stare ominously. Troutrooper took a long sip from his straw, the sound echoing through the cantina.

“There have been stories going around about some type of ‘ghost’ lurking around the Citadel. Can’t say that I’m all that impressed,” Troutrooper called out as he waved his flippers in the air without turning.

Silence.

“And you’re probably wondering why I, a Dark Jedi Master who could most likely put an end to all this turmoil with the lift of a flipper, is sitting here drinking at a time like this? Good question. Glad you asked, good question,” the Mon Cal repeated to himself drunkenly as he addressed his glass rather than the stranger behind him. He carefully tilted the cup to make it nod at his words.

“I guess you could say that it’s how I cope with the stress of wielding so much power and knowledge.” His bulbous eyes grew glossy and distant. “Or perhaps it is my way of punishing myself for past failure. My failure to defeat Plagueis. The Dark Crusade. And now discord from within? It’s just too much...”

The ghost took one slow step towards the bar, followed by a second and then a third.

“Or maybe,” Troutrooper exclaimed loudly as he finally turned on his stool, focusing his will into his right flipper. His voice lowered into sudden sobriety as he thrust his flipper forward.

“...Maybe I just really enjoy a nice, cold juice.”

As Troutrooper delivered his punchline, a telekinetic sledgehammer shot forth from his flipper and slammed into the ghost’s chest like a freight-train. The masked man managed to cross his arms to absorb some of the blow, wrapping the Force around his muscles like an armored vambrace. The weight of the strike was still enough to send the ghost sailing through the air, out of the cantina and into the adjoining mess hall.

His back crashed down hard into one of the bolted-down tables. Instead of crumpling into a useless heap, however, the ghost rocked back on his shoulder blades and planted his palms on either side of his head, flat against the surface of the table. Gravity continued to fuel his body as he pushed off the table and let his remaining inertia carry him into a back-handspring. All in the same, fluid motion, the ghost landed nimbly on both feet like a hunting cat, his robes settling around him. He slowly rose from his crouch to stand over the second table, looking no worse for wear, hood still drawn over his mask.

“No fight! No here!” an alien voice called from inside the cantina, followed by heavy boots on a staircase.

Troutrooper was one step ahead of the bartender. He padded slowly out of the mellow lighting of the Citadel Cantina and into the more crude, flat overhead lighting of the mess hall.

Stop. Fishy time, a little voice cheered in the back of the Mon Cal’s mind.

The ghost remained poised on his table, staring at the approaching Elder. The few Arconans that had been gathered in the hall abandoned their food trays and hurriedly made their exit, leaving Troutrooper alone with ghost.

“So, do I just call you Ghost? Mr. Ghost? Sir Ghost? Ghosty, the masked, lovable ghoul?”

“Ghost,” the hooded figure replied in a slightly modulated monotone. Reaching into his robes, Ghost unclipped a lightsaber from his belt and ignited the emerald blade. “Fight.”

Troutrooper furrowed his brow, stretched his flipper out to his side, grabbed and ignited his saber with his other flipper, shifted his weight, and said, “Mick. Drink.”

Obeisance obscured the Rodian's fear of fighting. In the time most needed to retrieve a glass, Mick had conjured another beverage for the Dark Jedi Master and placed it on the bar. With his task complete, his fear returned and Mick ducked beneath the bar once more.

Troutrooper nodded and wiggled his flippertip, causing the glass to float to his waiting flipper. He proffered the liquor to his opponent, who flicked his face towards the glass then back to the Mon Cal's face. “No? Too bad. Tis very tasty. I'll leave this one h—No,” the Krath reconsidered. “I'm going to drink this one. A man...person...thing like you deserves something special. Mick, make Whiteyface McGhostVoice here a Sawo Slammer, and don't drown it.” He nodded as he heard controlled commotion from behind the counter. “Down the hatch,” Troutrooper said as threw his bulbous head back and pounded his drink.

Whiteyface McGhostVoice was on him before he had swallowed, leaping and spiraling headlong through the now-empty mess hall. Troutrooper lowered the glass and raised his guard only to find that his attacker had “Vanished? Wow, Mick, you made this one really str—OOF!” Pastiness resumed his corporeal form just before delivering his Force-propelled, leaping, spinning blow to the Master's gut followed by a more-surprising-than-powerful uppercut. The first punch roiled the Mon Cal's digestion, the second aligned his digestive tract. A devastating combination, for which Troutrooper was not prepared. The drunken Master erupted in a volcanic explosion of digestive juices, alcohol, fruit juices, lunch, and saltwater before slumping back into the bar, moaning and clutching his lower abdomen.

The Ghost somersaulted backwards and out of the vomit rain. The stench, though, was unavoidable. It permeated the air with its toxic melange of vile bileness. Sure, the droid scrubbers would sanitize the room soon after the fight was over (as per their programming), but that smell, that unholy aroma lingers. It penetrates every surface—porous or not—with a perfume that even Hutts abhor. Definitely a libido killer. As the last gut-borne droplet fell, the Ghost wiped his mask reflexively, his subconscious wanting to clean his face though he was out of harm's way. But the piquant air remained as strong as ever. He pulled his gloved hand away from his mask and froze: it was damp. Revulsion mixed with horror as he realized his assault had been Pyrrhic: Troutrooper's Mustafar impression caught the Ghost in the blast. For all his athleticism and grace, the Ghost had been marked.

Meanwhile, Troutrooper retched again, his bruised and aching solar plexuses shuddering once more. A lifelong lover of baths, he now tossed about in the nastiest pool he could imagine. No, that's not right. I can imagine worse. This, though, is very, very bad. This is why I don't drink. No, that's not right. I do drink. I like drinking. Tis my third favorite activity...fourth...no, sixteenth...top fifty, definitely in the top fifty. “Hey, Mick. Question for ya. Torpedo Puncher, you're welcome to chime in, too, if you know the answer.” The Master got to his knees. “How high is drinking on my list of favorite activities? I can't remem—Aw, man! I fire-belched on my sporks! As if ruining my cloak wasn't enough,” he sighed as he removed two spoon-fork portmanteaus from this soiled robes. “Think you can clean these up quick, Mr. Mick?”

The bartender shrugged then nodded. Troutrooper tossed his sporks towards the bar; they clanged off the back of a barstool. “Sorry, I'll—“ another retch “—stay here and wait for whatever my opponent is waiting for.” He turned to the Ghost. “What are you waiting for, Mr. Silent Butt Deadly?”

A slight hesitation and subtle head shake preceded the Ghost pointing towards the bar.

Troutrooper frowned. “Look, ya mute nerf lover, I'm double-vision drunk, soaked in my vomit, battered, and I may have carpped my robes.”

“Crapped?”

“No, barkeep, carpped. Humans crap, fish carp. Try to keep up. Anyway, since you look like a doll, I'll ask in a manner befitting a tiny human: use your words and tell me why you aren't taking advantage of my shameful situation and slaughtering me.”

“Bar.”

The Dark Jedi Master of Disgusting Smells frowned then nodded. “Oh right, I'm in the bar area. No fighting in the bar. Know what? I'm going to wallow in this insipid sludge, which is located behind an invisible wall. Mick, a saltwater, if you please.”

Ghost shook his head.

“Mistaken,” he said in his low, falsified voice. He started forward, crossing the threshold between the mess hall and the cantina without slowing. As Mick handed Troutrooper his next drink, Ghost blurred forward with augmented speed, and swatted the glass out of the Mon Cal’s flipper.

Troutrooper glanced down at the floor as the liquid formed a small pool. He looked back up at Ghost, standing within punching distance. His bulbous eyes blinked a few times.

“Well, that was not very nice,” the fish said.

Ghost didn’t move, or make any other gesture to indicate response. Troutrooper could have sworn he felt something subtly through the Force, though. Was it contempt? Shame?

No, it was clearly smugness.

“I see,” the Mon Cal said with a somber slouch of his shoulders. “You attacked my drink, which could, conceivably, be registered as nothing more than an accident. At the very least, not an act of aggression towards an actual patron since no damage was actually done to my physique. Clever.”

Ghost didn’t say anything, but a dagger appeared in his off hand. From the bar, Mick reached under the counter and pulled out an actual scatter blaster and trained it on the intruder.

A few things happened all at once.

Ghost’s free hand shot up and made a dismissive gesture with a flick of his wrist. Mick pulled the trigger of the archaic weapon. The barrel jerked as if gripped by an invisible hand, directing its wide spray of ballistics into the nearby wall instead of its intended target. Quicker than blinking, Ghost’s dagger flashed through the air the short distance to the bar. The blade’s sharpened tip jammed into the scatter blaster’s flank, causing its powercell to sputter out and hiss.

The whole exchange lasted the span of a few heartbeats.

Troutrooper just stood motionless and blinked his bulbous eyes a few times. The Mon Cal started to retch again, causing both Mick and Ghost to unconsciously take a step backward from their respective positions.

Instead, Troutrooper regained his composure, threw his hand out in front of him, and launched a mental assault on the man who had assassinated his drink.

-=x=-

Ghost’s consciousness washed out to a blank canvas. As his vision sharpened into focus, he found himself standing on a plane of immaculate white that stretched out infinitely in every direction.

He was no longer wearing his robes or mask. He was standing in only a pair of boxers. His shoulder length black hair, glacial blue eyes, and the black-ink tattoo on his chest were the only true color against the plain backdrop and his pale but healthy skin.

“You would look a lot less ridiculous if you had pants on, Marick,” Troutrooper said, appearing behind the mostly-naked Hapan with his hands folded behind his back. The Elder Mon Cal wore simple robes trimmed with purple and bore no signs of his bile-stained attire.

“How did you know?” Marick Arconae inquired calmly, his face an impassive mask of neutrality.

“Magic,” the Mon Cal replied as he waved his flippers mystically like a stage magician. His face become somewhat serious as he lowered his hands. “If you really were some malevolent attacker, you would have simply killed Mick. Instead, you made a conscious effort to divert the threat and then neutralized it, without killing or hurting him. All in the span of a few seconds? I’ve only seen a few people able to think like that. The rest of the details followed and added up.”

Marick didn’t say anything for a moment, and then nodded. He turned slowly, only to face empty air. When he spun back, Troutrooper appeared in front of him as if he had used some form of teleportation technique. Which was not possible, even for a Dark Jedi Master. Which meant this place was not reality.

“An illusion,” Marick said bluntly.

“That’s why they must pay you the big bucks,” the Mon Cal nodded.

Marick exhaled slowly. “So, now what?”

“Well, I guess you could tell me why you’re here. Aren’t you supposed to be doing important leadery-type stuff?”

“There was no meeting,” Marick said, his eyes becoming distant.

“Ah. I see,” Trouty said as he started to piece together his Consul’s reasoning. “I guess we finish what we started then,” he finished after a few moments pause. “A test of the mind, so to speak.”

“I guess I’ve always wondered,” Marick said. “Seems fair.”

The Consul’s shoto lightsaber appeared in his hand, the familiar molded hilt settling into his palm. He thumbed the verdian blade to life and bent his knees, eyes focused on Troutrooper.

Troutrooper drew his own amethyst saber in response, and the two nodded. Without speaking, they turned and pressed their backs to one another in an archaic “dueling” fashion.

“Ten steps,” Troutrooper explained.

“Fair,” Marick replied.

The Arconans started to pace away from each other, each counting their steps along the infinite white canvas.

Five...

Six...

Seven...

Eight...

Nine...

Ten...

Marick spun with lightning-quick reflexes honed from years of training and fueled by the power of the dark side. His saber leapt from his fingertips, whirling through the air like a fluorescent, humming pinwheel.

Troutrooper had already turned, however, on the count of nine. Even before Marick had released his projectile, the Mon Cal’s flipper had extended and unleashed a violent torrent of electricity.

“Oh, you ass-”

The tendrils of blue-white Force energy crashed into the Hapan like a tempest. He convulsed and cried out in pain, every muscle and fiber of his body twitching and spasming as the stream of lightning continued to wash over him.

Marick dropped to his knees, eyes rolling back into his head, and then he simply vanished in a puff of smoke.

-=x=-

Ghost reeled back from where he had stood motionless in the cantina. He dropped to one knee, clutching the side of his head, panting heavily from behind his mask, his body trembling.

Troutrooper folded his flippers across his chest. Ghost rose back to his feet, and leveled his glowing cyan orbs at the Mon Cal.

“I’m glad you’re on our side, Master Fish,” Ghost said quietly in Marick's lilted voice.

“Who said that I am?”

Trouty couldn’t see the smile that formed behind Ghost’s mask. Without another word Consul-in-disguise turned and exited the cantina, the Force enveloping him in a shroud of invisibility.

Trouty waited a few moments, and then started to sway in place. He finagled himself back into his stool with some difficulty. He had managed to overpower Marick Arconae’s will, but it had not been an easy task. He found himself mirroring his Consul’s parting words. He was glad that Marick was on their team, as well.

“Clean up?” Mick asked as he placed his scatter blaster back under the counter and took up a rag instead to idly wipe the bar top.

The Mon Cal waved a flipper. “Another saltwater, if you could, Mick. I need a minute.”

Mick shook his green, bulbous head as he poured salt and water into a glass and swirled. He set the glass on the bar once the salt was dissolved, and made a note to call for a biohazard cleaning crew once the unpleasantness was over.

Troutrooper sat down, reeking, sloppy, more of a mess than he normal is. He blinked then gurgled a chuckle as he disrobed in front Mick and the Ghost. “Since you seem intent on playing by the rules, so will I. I made one first move, you made another, and now it's a battle of wills. Who will launch the next first blow? Not me. So I might as well get comfortable,” the Mon Cal said, stripping to his bare skin. “If I'm going to wallow, then I'm going all in. Had a few drinks—which are now all over the floor, my clothes, the ceiling, everywhere but my stomach—got into a minor scuffle with someone who won't say why, now it's sleepy time.” He waved at the Ghost, covered himself with his soiled robe, and laid in the filth.

The Ghost said nothing, his masked face belying nothing. He had seen the fish act strangely before, but this? This was new. This was not so much strange as it was simply disgusting, something for which the fish was not known. The smell? Sure. He can't help his natural odor. Well, more to the point, he could, but the last person to mention anything regarding the fish stench had to have a perfume bottle surgically removed from his colon. Neither he nor the bottle were ever the same again. The Ghost breathed in and caught a whiff of the vomit drop. He suppressed a shudder, and wiped his glove on the table.

In that instant, that momentary lapse of readiness, he sensed a door was about to open.

The Ghost realized his error, and leapt at his would-be assailant, green saber slicing through the befouled mess hall air. His blade rent his assailant in twain, a mortal wound from which the nefarious and dangerous service droid would not recover. “No.”

Yup. Bad move, bald faced liar.

Troutrooper's mock hit the Ghost's mind as Troutrooper's smock hit the Ghost's face. He had spun around to face his actual assailant, but could not avoid the telekinetically thrown, vomit saturated robe-cum-blanket. His frustration at himself for compounding his mistakes, the scent of drying fish bile, the suffocating smother of the robe wrapped around his mask and hood...no, it was just the smell that forced the Ghost's innards to convulse and expel its contents.

Panic assaulted him. The Ghost could handle himself in physical combat, had enough mental fortitude to stave off all but the most resilient of aggressors, was trained in the art of emotional suppression. Yet he found himself caught off-guard by this olfactory overwhelming. Who fights with smells? He tried to calm himself via deep breaths, but nearly choked on the regurgitate remaining inside his mask. Instinct broke through his will and he ripped the robe and his mask off. He drank the clean(er) air, which cleansed his lungs and mind.

A splash of salted water brought him back into the fight.

A lightsaber at his throat took him out of the fight.

“Next time you want to fight,” Troutrooper said as he put out a flipper, “don't silently request a throw down while I'm drinking away my problems. We both have better things to do, Marick, than this.”

The Consul sighed as he placed his saber in the fish's flipper. “Right as usual, TT. Thought you wouldn't mind a sparring session, but I see I was mistaken.”

“Well, you can make reparations by cleaning my robes and paying my bar tab,” he said, turning towards the door. “I need a full body douche, so if you'll excuse me, I'll be cleansing myself.”

Marick cleared his throat.

Troutrooper shook his bulbous head. “Collateral. When my robes smell fishy fresh, then you'll get your saber.”