Sometimes a contract sucked. Sometimes it wasn’t about taking out anyone in particular. Sometimes, unfortunately, it was about stopping anyone from killing a certain person. Of course, for Rajhin, that just meant each confirmed kill was going to net him a cool five thousand credits a head, so it wasn’t all bad. And he was on Coruscant, a place that could cater to the tastes of his self-styled class. The finer things weren’t cheap, a thing he reflected on as he drove his sword through another ruffian who’d been creeping up on his client.
“That makes six...should be able to afford a new set of krayt leather boots and a pedicure after this,” he mused aloud. The Togorian turned to check on his VIP, an information broker who’d come into possession of something people felt was worth killing one another over. He blinked his amber eyes as a figure covered head to toe in layered, blood-red composite armor held said information broker near the edge of the 1313 Pit. “Put him—” Rajhin snapped his fanged jaw shut. Too many people took words literally. “Give him here,” he growled instead, holding a hand out at the man, “or I will strip the skin from your bones.”
The armored figure turned its helmet to look him up and down, releasing one hand from the coat of the broker. The underworld agent was pale, shivering and covered in sweat. Rajhin could sense a wrongness off the man, something that made the fur on his neck rise. The red one held a finger up to the man and released his grip completely, leaving the man hovering above the pit instead of falling before taking a few steps towards Rajhin. The display of Force usage was not lost on the hitman, and when the other one turned he could see a pair of saber hilts, blackened with char as if pulled from a fire, on its waist. The Vizalan took a step forward, sword already rising to a guard position, but hesitated when the red-figure moved its upraised right hand slightly.
His client screamed as he floated out over the pit, terror keeping the man so still that he did not even struggle against the invisible hold.
“Look, my job is to keep that man alive. If all you’re after is a piece of intel...just take it and go. I’m here for a payday, not a saber measuring contest.”
“Yu would dictate terms to mesa?” asked the figure, voice distorted by the helmet. “Wesa already have what wesa need from smoothskin. But yousa…” the helmet seemed to look Rajhin up and down again. He couldn’t help but notice the way it fixated on his gauntlet-covered hands. “Many pieces of Sithy magick gear on yousa, yes? Could be bombad useful to mesa. Surrender them, mesa lets yousa...and hesa,” the helmet inclined itself towards the broker, “live.”
Raj snarled, lips curling back to show sharp teeth and stepped forward. The figure shrugged and held its left hand out, one of the saber hilts slapping into it. A crimson blade shot forth with a snap-hiss, the hum filling the quiet between the two Sith. The armored figure turned sideways, presenting its left flank, saber held up at an angle. Rajhin wasted no time — time was money, after all — and charged in. The alchemically-treated sword sought flesh, though he knew he’d have to cut his way to it. He opened with a stab, which the other Sith knocked away and took a half-step back, sliding its feet but not changing their stance.
“You would kill me by playing defense alone, hmm?”
“Yousa have not proved worthy of mesa’s full power, Kitten.”
With a grunt, Rajhin pressed the attack, raining blows down on the shorter figure, relying on his strength and speed. The lightsaber lashed out, leaving darkened marks on the sword but otherwise proving ineffectual. The Togorian could almost feel the other Sith’s hunger for the weapon as it proved to be what it had thought, a weapon capable of standing up to such an onslaught. Whoever the interloper was, they didn’t bother to move past parrying or blocking, leaving obvious counterattacks alone.
Still, the Vizalan was quick, and he was powerful, and some of his attacks managed to just slide past the Adept’s guard. Even then the armored figure seemed to perceive them before they could do any real damage, leaning away before the sharp edge of the sword could do more than score and spark across his layered defenses.
“You are too slow, little man,” grunted the Warlord. “It is only a matter of time before I peel that can you’re wearing open and rip out the insides. Release him and—” Rajhin cursed his words the moment they exited his lips, the figure before him cocking its armored head sideways as it processed the demand for a split second.
And then they lowered their right hand, and the broker screamed.
“Mesa has let him go, as requested.”
